Father, My Father
by notwolf
Summary: Abraxas Malfoy was Lucius Malfoy's father...but before that he was a son. Let's have a look at the man who molded Lucius into what he was to become. Prequel to "The Beginnings of a Death Eater".
1. Chapter 1

8

Father, My Father—chapter 1

**(A/N:** This story is a prequel to my "The Beginnings of a Death Eater", and starts when Lucius' father, Abraxas, is still a boy. I plan to go up through the time Lucius is born, and more. Thanks for reading, and hopefully reviewing! Also, this is dedicated to Lucius's Lover, without whom I probably would not have written it.**)**

**December 1940**

Eleven-year-old Abraxas peered out the window of the Hogwarts Express to see if they'd come for him. It was his first holiday from Hogwarts, his first year there, and he'd missed Mother. Surely she had come. His eyes swung back and forth the length of the platform; he didn't see them. Wait—there he was! An imposing man with short, platinum blond hair moved through the crowd as they seemed to melt away from him, giving him berth. In his right hand he carried a cane, its silver serpent head hidden by the soft leather glove.

The boy jumped from his seat and ran the length of the car, right down the steps, not worrying about his trunk. The elf could deal with that later. "Father!" A broad smile made him look particularly handsome. He bolted across the platform to the man, though he knew better than to cause a scene with tawdry displays of affection. Anyway, his sire wasn't one to display affection even in private. "Here I am, Father."

"Son." Horatio looked down at the lad through half-lidded eyes, appraising him. "How did the semester go?"

Abraxas glanced up at the older wizard, his grey eyes so different from the muted blue of his father's. "Very well, sir. I'm certain I took top honours in most of my classes."

"Most?" The man's voice took on an edge that made his son flinch slightly. "I expected better."

"I'll do better next semester. Where's Mother?" the boy asked, still searching the crowd.

"Preparing a feast in your honour, no doubt," said the man dryly. "She has no concept of rewards earned. We have things to discuss when we get home." He summarily took the boy by the arm and disapparated.

They landed on the front porch of Malfoy Manor. Horatio pushed open the door and called out, "Fancy!"

A house elf wearing a bright yellow dishtowel like a toga appeared; on her bald head, she wore a crown of flowers. Surprisingly, it didn't budge an inch when she bowed so low her pointed nose touched the floor. "Yes, Master Malfoy? How cans Fancy serves Master?"

"Go to the train station and retrieve my son's trunk. Then go to Hogwarts and collect the rest of his belongings." He shook off his heavy coat and hung it on the rack inside the door, while the elf went to do as she'd been instructed.

Abraxas stood very still, in shock. Had he heard what he thought he'd heard? Why would Father want to bring home all his belongings? "Sir, I don't understand. Why—"

"You won't be returning to Hogwarts," said Horatio brusquely. "I've been speaking with your teachers, all of whom confirm that you haven't received a single beating the whole four months you've been gone. Apparently it's too lax, far too little discipline."

"But…" choked out the lad, on the verge of tears. "How will I learn to use my magic?"

"You'll go to a decent school like I did." He ripped the cloak off his son and threw it on the rack. "Durmstrang doesn't cater to mudbloods and other filth. Their professors teach important things like the Dark Arts, they don't pussyfoot around it. And most importantly, they'll keep you in line."

"But I like Hogwarts!" shrilled the boy, at the same time his mind screamed for him to shut the hell up. Too late. A hard backhand knocked him onto his bum on the cold stone entryway.

"Evidently they put up with impudence at Hogwarts, Abraxas, but I don't tolerate it. Perhaps you've forgotten that in your short time away." He lifted the cane over the boy. "Do I need to remind you?"

"No, sir," Abraxas answered meekly, shoving himself to his knees and getting to his feet. "May I go see Mother?"

Horatio shrugged as if he couldn't care less. When the boy ran from the room, he migrated to the main sitting room and settled himself into one of the wingchairs by the fire. Fancy, who'd already returned from her errand, waltzed in with a goblet of brandy spiked with firewhiskey. He took it without a word and leaned back. It had been years since he'd been back to Durmstrang; he felt a thrill at the prospect of going back, even for a visit.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

When Horatio entered the Headmaster's office at Durmstrang, he automatically bowed, though he'd not done so since he'd been a boy of eighteen. Old habits died hard, it seemed. He stood upright and went inside, leaving Abraxas standing outside the door; he smiled genially at the dark-haired wizard behind the desk, who at three years his senior had been a sort of classmate in years past. "Otdavna ne sme se vizhdali, Penko. Kak si?" (_Penko, it's been a long time. How have you been?_)

"Blagodarya, dobre sam. I ti dobre izglezhdash." (_Fine, thank you. You look well yourself)_ replied the man, who stood to shake Horatio's hand. "Kakvo te vodi obratno v Durmstrang? Misleh, che shte si dovolen, che si se otarval ot nego." (_What brings you back to Durmstrang? I'd think you'd be glad to be rid of the place._)

"Ne se zanasyay. Tuk sam prekaral niyakoi ot nai-dobrite si godini." (_Don't be silly. I spent some of the best years of my life here_) drawled Horatio.

"Vremeto naistina e balsam za zabravyane." (_Time really does act as a balm of forgetfulness_) said Penko, chuckling to himself. "Kolko pati sa te privikvali v tozi sashtiya kabinet za da ti chetat konsko? Bez da broim onezi pati kogato uchitelite te vodeha za raka lichno." (_How many times were you called to this very office to be raked over the coals? Not including the times teachers took you in hand themselves._)

"Samo si varsheha rabotata." (_Merely doing their job_) Horatio said stoically. "Ima li oshte ostanali ot starite daskali? Bih iskal da mina da gi vidya. Nadyavam se che Abraxus she bade v dobri race. Vprochem toi oshte ne govori balgarski. (_Are there a lot of the old teachers remaining here? I would like to visit briefly. I hope that Abraxas will be in good hands. By the way, he does not speak Bulgarian yet._)

Grinning at the bewildered expression on the headmaster's face, he turned to the doorway and snapped his fingers for the child to come forth, noting all the while the quizzical expression the boy had failed to hide, indicating he was clueless about the conversation taking place in front of him. Maybe the kid ought to have deduced that his father must have, of necessity, learned to speak Bulgarian to attend Durmstrang. Abraxas stepped gingerly across the floor and came to a halt beside Horatio.

"Headmaster, this is my son, Abraxas. I've decided to pull him out of Hogwarts and enroll him here. Will that be a problem?"

"I don't see vhy it should be," replied Penko in English, his accent pronounced against Horatio's seamless Bulgarian. "Hello, Abraxas."

The lad ducked his blond head and murmured, "Hello, sir."

Horatio poked him in the ribs and muttered, "Stand up straight and act like a Malfoy." In a louder voice he said to the other man, "I've brought his things. Any books or robes he needs can be charged to my account at Gringotts."

The headmaster removed a stack of papers from his desk drawer and pushed them across the desk at the man. "Of course. If you vould be so kind, fill out these enrollment forms vhile I haf a chat with Abraxas. Come along, young man."

Horatio gripped his son's shoulder so hard it made him wince and was sure to leave a bruise. In a clipped whisper he said, "Don't you dare try to f—k this up, son."

Abraxas nodded his understanding and went to join the headmaster, who was already at the door. They exited and proceeded to roam the halls of the chilly old castle, and when they'd gone some distance Penko said, "You do not vish to be here."

The lad declined to respond, lest he say the wrong thing.

"I knew your father vhen ve vere boys," said Penko, and it cheered him to see Abraxas look up in surprise. So the boy truly hadn't understood the earlier conversation. "He vas an unruly student, and he can be very bossy."

Abraxas snickered in spite of himself. Though he'd never risk saying it, it was true. "Yes, sir." He paused, then added, "I do like Dark Arts. He said you teach them here."

"This is true. Is this vhy he vants you to come to Durmstrang?"

"Partly," admitted the boy. "He thinks Hogwarts isn't strict enough because they don't beat me. I guess he's hoping they will here."

Penko adopted a pensive mien as they walked. "Are you a bad boy?"

Another pause, longer, filled with tension. Abraxas finally shrugged. "I don't know. He thinks so. Everything I do is wrong unless it's exactly what he wants." Dread filled him in a rush. What if this man went back and told his father what he'd said? His eyes widened at the thought.

They walked on in silence for another minute or two. At last they rounded the corner on the way back to the office. "Let me put your mind at ease, Abraxas. Ve—the teachers and headmaster of Durmstrang—are strict, but ve do not strive to be cruel. Unless you are disobedient or insolent, or fail to do your vork, there is little reason to fear."

"But…he assumes I'll be treated harshly…" The boy trailed off.

"He is free to belief what he likes, no?" The headmaster smiled down at him. "I vill not tell him differently." He ushered the child along toward the open door. "Let us get you enrolled and settled in, shall ve?"

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

"There you are!" Nicolette Malfoy picked her way round the Malfoy pond to where her son sat on the bank, gazing gloomily at the fish swimming lazily about. He looked up at her but said nothing. She crouched down beside him, shivering. "It's chilly out here. Where is your coat?"

Abraxas shrugged and shifted his weight for her to sit down next to him. "It's pretty covered in snow. I wish it was winter."

"Let me see." When he made no motion, she repeated, "Abraxas, let me see!"

He held out his left arm, and she pulled back the sleeve to reveal a series of dark purpling bruises, in the shape of fingers. Taking her wand from her dress pocket, she floated it over the limb. "It's not broken."

"This time," muttered the child through clenched teeth. "I hate him."

She stifled a rebuke. He ought not speak so of his father, and yet wasn't it his father who gave him these marks, who gave him nearly all the bruises and welts and broken bones he'd ever had? If anyone deserved rebuke, it was the patriarch, but that simply wasn't done. All her life she'd been brought up to believe in pureblood society rules, among them the notion that men ruled their families and women obeyed. It wasn't ladylike or proper to object to his decisions, and could prove dangerous. "I'm sorry, son. I wish I could protect you."

The boy didn't respond. What was the point? If Mother didn't interfere, he'd be beaten; if she did, they'd both be beaten. Wasn't this better? He tossed a pebble into the pond, watching the rings expand outward, ever outward.

"You go back to Durmstrang soon. Summer is nearly over." She slid down and pulled him close to her in a hug. "I miss you so much when you're gone, son, but I know it's better. At least you're safe there."

"I miss you, too, Mother," he admitted softly. His head leaned on her bosom. "Why can't you leave him?"

Nicolette sat upright as if slapped. "I couldn't do that! What would our friends say? Imagine the gossip among the riffraff!"

"You think they don't gossip now?" he said.

"Abraxas Malfoy, you're too young to understand. One day you'll see."

"If I live so long," he answered saucily, and automatically glanced around lest his father be lurking and hear him.

"You shouldn't talk that way." The rote manner in which she said it held no conviction whatsoever. "When you're married, you'll see that things aren't as simple as you'd like them to be."

"All I know is I'd never hit my wife," he replied hotly. "You're just as clever as Father, just as strong magically. Why should he be the boss and you the slave?"

"It's the way society is." She sighed sadly. "He is physically more powerful, that gives him advantages."

"It makes him a tyrant, but it doesn't make him better than you or me." Abraxas crossed his arms over his chest. "When I'm grown up, I'll take care of you, Mother. You can be rid of him."

She hugged him tighter, stroking his gleaming blond hair, one attribute from his father. But not the eyes, she smiled to herself. Abraxas had her grey eyes, her gentleness inside—the gentleness that was being tested and killed by his sire bit by bit. Would he still be her sweet, kind boy by the time he married and had a family of his own? Or would he revert to the cruelty for which many Malfoy men were famous? It broke her heart to think of it.

"Come in the house, son. I don't want you to catch cold."

He nodded numbly. In a few days he'd return to Durmstrang for his second year, and while he'd be alright, what would become of Mother? He mustn't think of it, must suppress it. "The captain of the Quidditch team asked me to try out next term. He saw me flying."

"That's wonderful!" exclaimed his mother, hauling him to his feet. "Your father will be so proud—why didn't you tell him?"

Abraxas looked up at her, only a few inches taller than himself. "I'd rather wait till I make the team. If he knew, he'd…if I didn't make it…you know."

She nodded. Yes, she knew. "I wish you well, darling. Come on, now. It's nearly dusk and dinner will be ready."

As they walked to the house, he said quietly, "Mother, why don't you go visit some friends in France while I'm gone? Father has to stay here for his business dealings."

"I'll think about it," she assured him, hustling him along. "Now stand up straight and show a pleasant face for your father…"


	2. Chapter 2

10

Father, My Father—Chapter 2

**August 1943**

"Father?" Abraxas edged into the doorway of Horatio's study, understandably apprehensive. Rarely was he called here except to initiate whatever punishment had been devised for whatever infraction—real or imagined—had been committed. "You sent for me."

"Come in." Horatio barely looked up from the desk, where multitudes of papers were strewn about. He waved a hand over the desk, and for a moment his son expected the lot of them to arrange themselves neatly into a pile as he'd so often seen the man do with a magical gesture; instead, he merely indicated for the boy to come closer. "These are contracts and negotiations I'm working on. It's about time you begin learning business practices."

Abraxas swallowed—more aptly, gulped—when he approached and viewed the two papers nearest him. They weren't in English…German, that's what it was. A queer, sick feeling made his stomach sink. "What kind of contracts are they?"

"Providing machinery and other goods," said the man shortly.

Bemused, Abraxas asked softly, "It was my understanding that we deal in real estate, buying and selling for profit. We haven't got warehouses or machinery. How can we provide it?"

Horatio snorted. "We're wizards and there's a muggle war on. We take it from those who have and give it to those who have not."

"That's stealing!" yelped the boy, right before the back of his father's hand clipped him on the mouth.

"The Malfoy fortune doesn't make itself, does it? And they're filthy muggles, what difference does it make?" He picked up a stack of papers.

Abraxas backed off out of reach before responding, unable to contain his disgust as the realization hit him. "You're taking stuff from Britain and selling it to Germany? But they're the enemy! If they win, they'll invade us, take our land—"

Horatio stood up, strode two steps over to the boy, and whacked him again, knocking him against the wall. "Don't you ever question my ability to provide for my family or to protect them! I'm in command of more Dark Arts than most wizards could ever dream of, as you should know since I've been teaching it to you. If the muggles overrun our land, they will die long before they step foot within a mile of this manor."

"I—I wasn't questioning you, sir," Abraxas said meekly, wiping at a trickle of blood from his lip.

"Then sit your arse down and pay attention." He waited till his son had done so, then shoved the paper in his grip into Abraxas' face. "This is a German requisition form for ammunition. We are going to sort through the British files until we find a suitable lot that we can confiscate and sell to the Germans."

"No." Abraxas' eyes widened so big he thought they might pop out of his skull. Had he just said that? In all of his fourteen years he'd never dared tell his father _no_ before. It was so unexpected that Horatio simply gaped at him for a long moment. He had to say something else, mitigate the damage. "Father, it's wrong." Obviously that wasn't it.

Before he could so much as gush a profuse apology for his positively insane outburst, Horatio snatched his arm and disapparated. They landed in the dungeon, where a set of manacles hung on the far wall from heavy chains. Horatio threw him forward and he landed on his knees. In the twinkling of an eye and the wave of a wand he was bound by the wrists with the metal cuffs, his shirt ripped from his body.

At last he found his voice. "Father, I'm sorry! I didn't mean any disrespect! Please!"

"You're getting too big for your britches, son. You're fourteen, and already think you know everything." Horatio took up the horsewhip laying on a low shelf. He cracked it loudly, making the boy cringe and whimper. "And to brazenly defy me—and tell me I'm wrong to boot. Well, that must not be overlooked."

"I won't do it again," Abraxas squeaked.

"And now you're lying to me," said the man, lashing the whip across his back.

Abraxas jerked upward and forward at once, a shrill cry escaping him. Blood seeped from the red weal that grew quickly darker and thicker. The whip struck several more times, each one cutting into the flesh and stripping it from his body as the boy screamed in agony, begging him to stop. The lad's suffering had no effect on Horatio, who viciously whacked him again and again.

"If I told you to help me in this endeavor, you'd muck it up on purpose because it's _wroooong_," said Horatio sarcastically, pausing to mimic his son's voice. He let out another snort of derision as he continued to flog his son until his arm was tired and Abraxas hung limply from the chains, then he lowered the whip. Blood streaked the leather, which he scourgified while noting to the sobbing child, "You'll learn to obey me, boy, whether you like it or not. And you will not show me disrespect in any form, is that understood?"

"Ye—yes, sir," croaked Abraxas, struggling to control his tears. He tugged at the manacles binding his arms, causing them to cut into his wrists, as they did every time he was foolish enough to tug at them. "Please let me down."

"No." Horatio laughed. "You seem to like that word, yet now it isn't so nice, is it? I think I'll leave you here to think about what you've done." So saying, he disapparated.

Abraxas screamed at the top of his lungs, pain-filled rage filling the dungeon. He'd been left here this way a number of times, he knew the drill: in two or three days, Father would come back and let him go, and if the beating was bad enough, send for the healers. Couldn't have a Malfoy heir battered and scarred in public, now could we?

Resigning himself to the inevitable, Abraxas relaxed his aching body as best he could with the manacles ripping at his wrists and the sticky wetness running down his back into his trousers. It was worse this time, he could feel it…more blood, which meant more skin flayed from his back. Already it didn't hurt so much…he was growing weak and dizzy…and then he passed out.

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"Lift him up here. Now lower him onto his stomach."

The words, seemingly far away, drifted in and out of Abraxas' consciousness. He was flying—no, floating. Someone was levitating him and placing him on his bed. He recognized the coverlet. He tried to speak and it came out as a moan.

"You're hurting him," said a woman. It was his mother, he knew that voice so well. What was she doing here? Father would be angry.

"Please step back, madam," said an authoritative male.

There was a sensation of people around him, closing in, studying him. Hands, gentle hands stroked his forehead and hair as another man spoke to him. "It's alright, we'll fix you up good as new."

"Who are you?" he managed through a dry throat.

"I'm Dr. Cullin. You know me," said the first male voice.

Abraxas nodded slightly. This was the healer Father had called last time he whipped him like this. He was an excellent healer; when he was through, not a trace of scar could be detected.

"And I'm Frank Cullin, Dr. Cullin's son," said the second male voice. He sounded like a teenager himself. "I'm studying with my father to become a healer." He held a straw to the lad's lips, with the instruction, "Drink some water, you're dehydrated."

Abraxas sucked down as much as he could before the straw was removed, then let his face rest into the comforter again. He didn't know what they were doing, but it felt good. The pain had gone completely, although he was fairly certain it was numbing medication. Probably something in the water as well. He heard them reciting incantations and chanting a spell over and over in a lilting singsong…very soothing. And then he was asleep again, this time a restful, heavy slumber induced by the doctor.

Dr. Cullin raised his head to Nicolette. "How long was he down there this time?"

"Only a few hours," she said in agitation. "As soon as Horatio left on his trip, I went to fetch him." She paced the room wringing her hands. "Don't look at me like that! I can't stop him, and if I cross him he'll do worse to the boy."

"Yeah, right," said Frank under his breath.

The doctor nudged his son in the ribs, giving him a 'keep silent' glance. "Mrs. Malfoy, I realize that the law has no authority over a father disciplining his son, but you're his mother. He depends on you to protect him, even against his father."

"Dr. Cullin," she returned coldly, drawing herself up. "We pay you to render a service, not to disparage our family or make judgments upon us. If you can't see your way clear to do that, I shall dismiss you and call another healer."

"Forgive me, I was out of line." Dr. Cullin returned to ministering to the boy, waving his wand over him in a series of diagnostic tests. "Frank, I need to go back to the office. Stay here with Abraxas." To the woman he added in a tone almost as cold as her own, "This type of injury, as you may recall, requires a few days to completely repair without scarring or infection. My son and I will need to come and go to check on him and administer curatives. Is that acceptable?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then by your leave." He whispered something to his son and left the room.

Nicolette edged to the bed to stare down at her son. The sight of his torn, mutilated flesh made her gag and she hurriedly turned away. "I'm sorry, son. You know I love you."

_He'd know it a lot better if you kept your husband from trying to kill him._ Frank forced himself not to say it. It was true, but Dad had asked him to behave, not to make waves. For Abraxas' sake. He needed healers who could be trusted, who could heal him, who could listen to him if he wanted to talk. There was no guarantee of who he'd get if the Cullins were dismissed.

"Mrs. Malfoy, maybe you should let him rest." She wasn't doing any good here, and would only make the kid feel worse if he awoke.

"Yes, alright," she said distractedly.

She wandered from the room and Frank sat down on the large bed next to his charge. His wand glided above Abraxas' back, so close it almost touched, only the heat of his hand making contact. The skin at the outermost edges of the weals began to mend, knitting itself together seamlessly in a patch so tiny it wasn't visible to the naked eye. He paused to let the skin rest for a few minutes, then ran another pass. With the size of the area to be treated, this would take many hours and much exhausting magic over the course of three days; he was glad his father would be here to take half of the load.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

Abraxas lifted his head off the bed to listen. No sound. That could be good or bad. He strained to hear anything, even the sound of turmoil down the hall in his parents' room, but still nothing. Slowly, ever so slowly, he eased himself to a sitting position. Dr. Cullin had advised him to be careful and not to move around too much, but he'd been in bed for days and was growing restless. Truthfully, most of the pain seemed to have gone—either that or they'd hopped him up on some pretty strong pain relievers, but he didn't feel drugged.

He placed his feet on the plush rug beside his bed and stood up. So far so good. Tentatively he stepped onto the cool wooden flooring, a nice change from the over-warm blankets. He crept to the open door and listened again before peeking his head out. The coast was clear. He bit his lower lip, hesitating, then slipped out into the hallway in the direction away from the stairs. He'd gone down to the end and turned the corner when he heard voices and stopped, his heart quickening.

All at once it occurred to him that the voices were coming from the rows of family portraits facing each other, lining the corridor. He looked up at the ones nearest him, noting the family resemblances, and shook his head, a sense of despair growing within him.

"What's wrong, young man?" asked the portrait directly behind him.

Abraxas whirled, eyes wide. "What? I mean, what, Grandfather?"

"You're dressed in your pajamas in the middle of the day, and I rarely see you down this way." The man, himself dressed in the style of the early twentieth century, gestured at the boy's clothing. "Malfoys do not wander the house scantily dressed."

"I was…I…" He didn't know what to say. It sounded like whining to admit his father had nearly beaten him to death, and he was convalescing. A faint pink darkened his cheeks.

"He's been ill," said the woman beside him, Abraxas' grandmother. "I told you what that son of yours did to him! All the portraits downstairs have been talking of it for days."

"Son of mine? He's yours as much as mine, Pamela," replied Seneca Malfoy drolly. He turned his attention back to Abraxas. "How are you, Abraxas?"

"Fine, sir," he answered automatically, then peered up at the couple staring down at him. He used to come here often before he'd begun boarding school; now he rarely saw them at all. With a tinge of bitterness he said, "I was just thinking that if I grow up to be like him, I'm better off not growing up at all. It's a terrible thing for me to say about your son, and I'm sorry, but you asked."

"So you judge all Malfoy patriarchs on the merits of your father," observed the other.

"Who else am I to judge by?" asked Abraxas, shrugging. That hurt his shoulders a bit, and he grimaced.

Suddenly the portraits up and down the hall within earshot all began speaking at once, seemingly carrying on a conversation they alone could follow. Here and there Abraxas caught words like 'discipline' and several nasty words he wasn't permitted to use; assuming they'd forgotten about him, he was about to leave when Seneca beckoned him forward. The other portraits leaned in, listening, their argument stilled.

Seneca cleared his throat and spoke loudly enough for all to hear. "We—my fellow dead patriarchs and myself—must disagree with you, Grandson. We've come to the consensus that, while physical discipline and strictness are necessary to produce obedient, respectable children, a few of our number have gone overboard in their duty. You'll likely find their portraits on the Wall of Shame." He shook his head sadly, his long blond hair dragging across his shoulders. The tone of his voice conveyed pained honesty. "I confess that Horatio is the worst in our memories, and for that I can only offer my apologies. Were I alive, I would never permit him to treat you as he does."

Abraxas paused, then blurted, "Why? Why does he treat me like this? I try to obey, I try to make him proud…" His voice caught in his throat.

"It's not your fault, Abraxas," said Pamela softly. She reached out as if to stroke his head. "All his life he was…not right…not like other boys. He doesn't seem to feel emotions like most people, he doesn't…"

"He doesn't care," said Seneca bluntly. "He isn't capable of love, and trying to win it will only disappoint and hurt you. He wouldn't recognize empathy, shame, or guilt if they slapped him in the head—which they should! We don't understand why he is this way, only that he is."

"Seneca, that's a callous way to talk about our son," admonished his wife.

"Am I wrong?" he shot back. She looked at him, then away. "We consulted healers when he was a boy. They told us he was…what's that muggle word they used?"

Pamela murmured so low he strained to hear, "A _sociopath_."

"What does that mean?" asked Abraxas with trepidation.

Head down, Seneca muttered, "It means he uses people, mistreats them, sees them as objects to be exploited or dominated. They said there wasn't anything we could do to change it. If he hadn't been our only surviving heir—"

"You had better not be trying to blame this on me!" shrilled Pamela. "I bore you several children, all of whom died of the smallpox, so don't you—"

"I wasn't blaming you, dear," said Seneca in a conciliatory tone. "I only wish…" he shook his head again. "It's nothing to do with you, Abraxas. You're a fine boy, and I wish you were my son."

"Thank you, Grandfather," responded the boy. He twisted his neck to peer around the empty hall. "I should get back to bed, in case anyone looks for me. I'll visit you again before I go back to Durmstrang." He hurriedly waved at them and they waved back, then he crept back down the hall to his room and slid into bed.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

"Oh, you're back. It's only been four days." Nicolette crossed her arms and glared at her husband. "Where were you this time?"

"Quit your carping. I'm back, that's all you need to know." It wasn't as if he were cheating on her, for Merlin's sake. Not that he wouldn't if he could, but it wasn't an option: Malfoy tradition dictated that every Malfoy make the Unbreakable Vow of fidelity at their wedding. "I'm going to bed."

"What about Abraxas?" she shrilled. "You beat him half to death, then leave him chained in the basement, and don't even ask about him when you manage to find your way home!"

Horatio stared at her in a way that made her blood turn icy. "If he were dead, the authorities would have arrested me, wouldn't they? Therefore, he must be fine. And while we're on it, how long did you wait before you ran to the dungeon to free him after I'd gone?"

She refused to answer, instead sniping, "You're lucky I did. Dr. Cullin said it's worse than before, and he could have died if he'd been left there—bled to death!"

"If you hadn't been so weak, I'd have other children and not have to worry about whether my heir dies." He enjoyed the look of horror crossing her face. "Your parents guaranteed me a fertile wife, and I got _you_."

"I bore you a son, that's all that was required in the contract."

"And as you so recently pointed out, what if something were to happen to him?" asked Horatio, sneering.

She took a few slow steps forward, pulling her wand from her pocket as she went, and pointed it right at his face, her hand trembling. "The most likely thing to happen to him is _you_! Keep your hands off my son, Horatio, or I can't say what I might do."

He hesitated only a second, then his hand shot out, snatching the wand from her. In an instant he'd snapped it in half and threw it down onto the floor. For good measure he slapped her across the face, hard enough to knock her to her knees. He bent over slightly, grasping her by the hair, and murmured in her ear, "Don't you ever do that again, Nicolette, or there is no telling what _I_ might do."

He turned on his heel and stalked to his study for another round of 'business deals'.


	3. Chapter 3

9

Father, My Father—Chapter 3

**June 1945**

She watched him stride down the hall toward her, straight and tall, shoulders thrown back like a soldier in his Durmstrang uniform…her little boy all grown up. Abraxas had turned sixteen last month, during the school term, and this was the first she'd seen of him since the Christmas hols. She held out her arms and he walked into them, placing his strong arms round her waist and kissing her cheek.

"It's good to see you, Mother," he said, smiling. He was so handsome when he smiled, though around Malfoy Manor he had scant reason to do so.

Nicolette choked out a few words of greeting, muffled into his chest, straining to get out over the lump in her throat. Abraxas said he had something to tell her, and it had to be bad if he'd waited till he got home. If he'd been in some grave trouble at school, or had gotten bad grades, Horatio would pitch a massive fit…and the punishment. She shuddered despite the warm summer air. Thankfully, Horatio was viewing some real estate in London, perhaps she could figure a way to mitigate the damage before he got back.

"I missed you, son," she said, pulling away to look at him. "How was the term? Did you do well?"

In answer he presented a scroll to her, which she unwound to study the list of classes with their corresponding marks. It was written both in Bulgarian and English, to her relief. All of the marks were very high, excellent in fact.

"This is wonderful. Your father will be proud." She stopped herself. That had come out automatically, and they both knew it was false. Abraxas could have conquered the world single-handedly and his father would never show pride in him. "I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you," he said, still smiling. He pulled a folded note from his shirt pocket and handed it to the woman, explaining hurriedly, "This is what I wanted to show you. It says that the teacher of Medicinal Herbs and Healing Arts would like me to spend the summer at Durmstrang studying with him. He rarely takes on extra pupils this way, but he thinks I show great promise. His words!"

Nicolette stared down at the paper. "When would you leave?"

Abraxas shuffled his feet nervously, studying the floor. "Now. I only came home for you to sign the permission slip." He didn't bother to add that he hadn't dared send it via owl because he feared his sire would throw it in the rubbish and order him home.

"I'm not sure your father will agree, son," she hedged.

Abraxas looked around reflexively, but the hall was empty. "He's not here, is he? It only has to be signed by one parent. Please, Mother, I really want to learn to heal—for my future…and for you."

Disconcerted, she repeated, "For _me_?"

He took her hand in his larger mitt, his grey eyes boring into hers. "You think I haven't noticed in the past year or so how you grow more and more tired? The glamour charms don't hold up indefinitely; I see the black circles round your eyes. Haven't you been to a healer? What about Dr. Cullin?"

"I'm fine, Abraxas. I just…I don't sleep well." She rattled the letter noisily, drawing attention from herself to the parchment. "This is written in Bulgarian. It could say anything."

"Do you truly believe I'd lie to you?"

She touched his cheek lovingly, letting it rest there. "No. But you're barely sixteen, I haven't seen you in months, and now you'll be gone all summer as well as next term. You're growing up so fast, and I'm missing it."

A pang of guilt darted through him. He hated being home because of Father; Mother was home alone with the beast for months at a time. It must be awful for her. He nodded, though the effort brought tears to his eyes, and he blinked them back. This was the only chance he'd get to work with Professor Lazarov, for if he declined the invitation, another was not likely to be forthcoming. "If you want me to stay home, I will."

Nicolette sighed and shook her head. "No, Abraxas, this is good for you. I won't stand in the way of your dreams." _Especially if it keeps you safe_. She _accio'_d a quill and signed the parchment on the line at the bottom. It was the only blank spot, so it must be the right one.

"Thank you, Mother. I love you." He reached in to hug her, squeezing her to his chest.

"And I love you. You'd best floo away before your father gets home."

This time it was he who pulled away. "Won't he be asking after me when I don't return from school?" This was the one time he wished his father would be neglectful.

"You let me worry about that," she replied, attempting to be cheery. "Learn a lot, and write to me frequently." She kissed his cheek and led him to the fireplace.

"By Christmas I'll have learned to apparate, and won't need to do this anymore," he said, feeling awkward to have spent so little time with her. "They teach apparition early at Durmstrang."

"Go," she said, giving him a tiny push. "I love you."

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

It was late when Horatio returned from London, reeking of firewhiskey and cigars. He'd made a magnificent deal on a bombed out neighborhood, buying the buildings very cheaply so that he might use magic at night, in the dark, to clear away the rubbish, and consequently sell the land for a tidy profit later. After he'd thoroughly inspected the properties, signed the deeds, and paid the owner, the two had gone off to a high society restaurant, where they'd spent the latter part of the afternoon and the entire evening drinking and conversing. The house elf had kept his dinner warm all these hours, though he barely ate any of it.

He stumbled up the stairway to his bedroom—a room apart from that of his wife, in the event she took it into her silly, pretty head to kill him in his sleep. That simply would not do, would it? For their entire marriage they'd maintained separate quarters, and he preferred it that way. Then he recalled something the stupid elf had been chattering about…Abraxas. He passed his own room, turned around, and walked back down the hall to his son's room. The door was open, the lights out. Evidently he wasn't there. If he'd gone out with friends, he'd damned well better be back at a decent hour and not cause any uproar that he'd read about in the _Prophet_ tomorrow.

Since he was here, he may as well check in on Nicolette. He lurched to her door and flung it open with a crash; it wasn't locked, it never was. She knew better. And there she was, naked from the waist up, clasping her white cotton nightgown over her breasts like a frightened teenaged girl as she gasped, wide-eyed, at the man in the doorway.

"Look at you, still so modest," he scoffed, striding to her and ripping the nightgown from her hand. He tossed it to the floor out of reach. He enjoyed the look of fear in her eyes, the way she so desired to cover herself but didn't dare. "You act like I've never seen them before."

"You startled me," she murmured, reaching down to grab her clothing.

His hand gripped her wrist and jerked her back up. "The elf told me Abraxas came home. So where is he?"

Nicolette straightened up, trying to regain some semblance of dignity while also trying to avoid the stench of alcohol on his breath. "He's going to be training with one of his teachers this summer. The teacher believes he's got great talent and wants to nurture it." _As if you'd know anything about nurturing._ "It's an honour to be chosen."

"Is that so? Why, then, did he not ask my permission to do this?"

"I signed the form," she answered, a hint of defiance seeping through.

Horatio paused, gobsmacked that his timid little wife had the audacity to take this upon herself without consulting him. If he went storming to Durmstrang now, complaining that he'd been ignorant of the state of affairs and his wife had gone against his wishes, everyone would think him a pussy-whipped bastard whose woman wasn't under control. That mustn't be allowed. Abraxas would have to stay at school now, but that didn't mean this was over.

Just to be contrary he bellowed, "He's _my_ son, I decide what he does!"

"He's my son as well," she responded evenly.

He circled her, narrowed eyes scrutinizing her. His voice rose as he spoke. "I think you're lying. Abraxas hasn't got any talent, you simply want to keep him away from me!"

"You can never see any good in him, can you?" she shot back, not the submissive wench he'd expected. In a blast of utter stupidity, she shrilled, "A virtual stranger recognizes his talents—hell, he probably cares more for your son's welfare than you do!"

Horatio backhanded her onto the bed. "I'd tread softly if I were you. That curse I put on you can be accelerated, you know."

"Good, do it!" she shrieked, struggling up onto her elbows, her bare chest heaving with anger. "Kill me and be done with it!"

He let out a cruel laugh. If she didn't care what he did to her, she still cared about the boy. "What fun would that be? Perhaps you'd best watch your tone, or I'll go right to Durmstrang and bring Abraxas home. He can blame you when he's hanging in the dungeon this time."

That was all it took. The fight gone from her, she sat up all the way, pleading, "Horatio, please don't. I'm sorry."

He took her roughly by the upper arms in a grip hard enough to leave serious bruises, lifting and throwing her at the same time so that she landed in the middle of the bed and bounced a couple of times. He hopped on top of her, straddling her waist. "Now, if you decide to play nice with me, I'll reconsider." He undid his belt, then began unbuttoning his trousers with one hand as his other hand tore the knickers from her body. "It's been quite a while since I've had a good shag."

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

**August 1945**

When Abraxas entered the lab, it was empty. He looked at the clock on the far wall to make sure he wasn't early or—God forbid—late. No, he was right on time. A breath of relief escaped him. "Professor Lazarov?" he called.

No answer. He quietly circled the room, peering into cubbyholes and under tables in the event the teacher had suffered an attack of some sort and was incapacitated, but fortunately found nothing. He was about to head out the door when he saw a piece of paper spell-taped to the frame. Heart pounding, he hurried over and, seeing his name in Bulgarian on the parchment, he snatched it from the wall and began to read.

_Abraxas,_

_You've been working with me for two months now. It's time to test what you've learned._

Oh, goody, he was having a pop quiz. And he'd thought this summer was to be all fun. Grimacing, he continued on with the letter.

_I'm going to give you a scenario, and I want you to use your best judgment on how to proceed. A young Nigerian child is observed with the following symptoms: vomiting, headache, fever, seizures. Given this information and nothing more, what course of action might you take? Keep in mind going to the hospital or a healer are not permitted! Whatever curative you employ, I expect it to be brewed and left here on the table for me, with adjoining notes on why you chose this remedy._

_Professor Lazarov_

"Oh, crap," Abraxas muttered aloud.

He stared down at the letter, panic rising. There could be any number of things wrong with that kid—a concussion from a fall or blow to the head, a curse, a potion gone wrong, a disease he wasn't even aware of! It sounded most like concussion; but no, the teacher had mentioned fever, not a typical symptom, which may be deliberate to trick him.

What if he guessed wrong? What if it was the common flu? There was no real cure for that, just rest and fluids, and alleviation of some symptoms. Yes, he'd learned a lot about healing herbs and healing arts in these two months, in addition to what he'd learned in class all year, but… A smile spread slowly over his face. That meant the professor was probably going to make him employ what he'd learned, right? So now he needed to recall specifically what he'd studied. They'd spent a lot of time in the private garden out back, the one where he often saw those beautiful women—or should he say veelas?

Abraxas read the teacher's note again. Why had he specified that it was a Nigerian child? Well, duh! It was a clue! What was common in African countries and sounded like the symptoms given? Malaria! He ran to the teacher's desk, pulled a volume from the shelf, and turned to Malaria, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Sure enough, he read:

_There are three main stages to a classic malaria attack, which lasts between six and ten hours. The first, a cold stage, brings on chills and shivering. The second stage involves fever, headaches, vomiting, and in young children may be accompanied by seizures. The third stage is profuse sweating, with an eventual return to normal temperature, and fatigue. _

Excellent. This most likely was the ailment, so now he needed to decide how to treat it. He had to assume he was to use the materials found here at Durmstrang, since he was here.

He found himself muttering aloud, "What are good herbs for malaria? Wormwood leaves and flowers—careful with that, can be toxic if too much is used. Have to isolate the artemisinin, I can do that through tincture and distillation. Wolfsbane root for fever—also poisonous if too much is used, can cause heart complications. Quinine from Cinchona bark. Horehound leaves and flowering tops…" He chattered on to himself while he researched the various remedies for malaria found in several books, mentally cross referencing with the materials available to him.

Holding the letter in one hand, he made his way down the corridor, out the back gate, and through the private gate to the garden where only specified individuals were permitted to be. He stood there for a long moment gazing out over the field of plants. Where to begin? Picking up a trowel and a burlap sack, he sidled down the rows searching for the Wormwood plant. He gathered a small portion of the flowering tops and moved on to the Aconite; when he found the section he knelt down in front of it, took the trowel, and proceeded to dig for the roots. He'd just cut off a thumb sized piece when a voice startled him.

"What are you making?"

Abraxas whirled to the veela, whose plain white dress seemed to float around her in the light breeze. His mouth worked several times before finding his voice. "I was—Professor Lazarov set me a task. I need to make a potion for malaria."

"I see," said the veela, gliding past him and looking down at the root in his hand. "Which part do you intend to use?"

"The root," he said, confused. Wasn't it obvious?

She reached out to take the piece of root from his hand, and when she brushed him he shuddered. "You see here, the tiny roots shooting from the larger whole?"

"Yes."

"Which part do you intend to use?" she insisted.

"I…I don't know. I thought to use the whole thing." Was she perhaps trying to help him; was that allowed? "Professor Lazarov said I may not go to a healer, Stana. I have to do this alone."

"Then think, Abraxas. What do you know about the root of this plant?" She smiled coyly and drifted off after giving him back the root.

What did he know? A lot. But why had she mentioned the tiny, hairlike projections from the main? He definitely did not recall anything of significance about them. Well, there was one way to find out, so he trudged back up to the lab once more, dragged a heavy volume of_ Herbs That Heal_ from the shelf by the teacher's desk, and proceeded to read. At last his eyes lit upon the sentence that explained it all:

_The roots of Wolfsbane, or Aconite, contain numerous shoots, filament roots that are most often used in place of the whole for potions involving young children, as they are not so caustic to the young system._

Abraxas shook his head, laughing softly. Did Stana know how much she had helped him? This one little touch could have made the whole difference. He hurried back to the garden, collected the rest of the ingredients, and made for the lab. He had a lot of work to do.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

"Excellent work, Abraxas," said Lazarov, pumping the young man's hand in his own. "I know for a fact this potion had to take you at least eight hours to complete. Nice touch on using the rhizomes instead of the full root of the Wolfsbane. I think you'll make a fine healer one day."

"You're very kind," the boy answered shyly, ducking his head and blushing. He wasn't used to compliments—certainly not at home, and these strict teachers here didn't throw them about, either.

"I wouldn't say it if it weren't true," said Lazarov. "So, are you ready for your next challenge?"

"Already?" said Abraxas, slightly surprised at the lack of more instruction. He smiled back at the teacher. He'd be a healer one day, and he'd have this man to thank for taking the time to nurture and perfect that love of the art in him. "Sure. Bring it on."


	4. Chapter 4

9

Father, My Father—Chapter 4

**June 1946****  
**(A/N: Because you've been so good about reviewing, here is a chapter less than a week after the last one!)

There was a guest; the idiot elf had no idea who it was, couldn't pronounce the name, but insisted that Master Malfoy must see this guest who knew Master and called Master by name. When Horatio entered the parlor nearest the front door, he paused rigidly in the doorway, stunned. Inside, sitting in an armchair sipping a glass of white wine, was a rather short, thin man in his sixties, salt and pepper hair cut in a military style, peering over the top of his spectacles at the wizard who'd just entered. Regaining his composure, Horatio strode into the room, halted in front of the man, gave a short bow, and held out his hand. The other man shook it, giving a clipped smile.

In Bulgarian he said, "Professor Lazarov, forgive me. I didn't expect to see you here." The absolute shock still registering on his face backed up his statement. Why would one of Abraxas' teachers be here? Had that little shit been up to no good at school? A sudden flash of anger ran through him, but he shoved it down and said, "Has my son done something?"

"No, he hasn't done anything wrong," answered Lazarov in Bulgarian. "Why would you think he had?"

"Well, you're here," said Horatio lamely.

"Please, sit." The professor indicated with a wave of his hand, as if it were his own home and he were not the guest. "I apologize, my English is quite poor, and I fear your house elf did not properly introduce me. Nonetheless, you know me, so let's get right to business, shall we? I haven't time for slacking about."

"I remember that about you," Horatio mused aloud. He also recalled taking only one of this teacher's classes when he was in school himself, not working as hard as he ought to have done, fooling around in class, and earning himself three whippings from Lazarov in the space of one term—a record, if you could believe student gossip. He moved warily over to sit opposite Lazarov. "What is this business we need to discuss?"

"Abraxas studied with me last summer; I had anticipated mentoring him again this summer. He's acquiring quite a lot of expertise," started Lazarov. He thought he detected a note of hostility in the narrowed eyes of the other. "I sent a permission form home with Abraxas last week, but he hasn't returned it, nor have I heard a word of his reply." He looked over his glasses in that peculiar way that Horatio recognized as displeasure.

For the briefest of moments, Horatio was speechless. Here, in his own home, he felt like a student at the headmaster's office all over again—and this wasn't even the headmaster! He got up, went to the door, and snapped his fingers; his elf appeared at his elbow. "Bring my son to me."

The elf popped out, leaving Horatio to turn back apologetically to his guest. "We will find out what's going on, I assure you."

Within seconds, the elf popped back in front of Horatio, the boy's trouser leg clutched in its fist. "Here is Master's son, Master."

Before Horatio could say a word, Abraxas burst out, "I didn't do anything, Father, I swear! I was in my room studying like you—"

Horatio cleared his throat loudly and signaled with an incline of his head and the pointing of his eyes behind the boy. Abraxas spun around slowly, and his eyes widened even more, his jaw dropping. "Professor, what…?"

"Hello, Abraxas. I came to make sure you were alright."

"Why wouldn't I be?" asked Abraxas, desperation rising in his voice. If he had been before, he certainly wouldn't be when the teacher left.

"You didn't return to Durmstrang for training, nor did you reply to me," said the man. "I began to imagine you'd fallen ill. I am eminently qualified to handle that, you know."

"Yes, sir, but I'm fine," Abraxas murmured, dropping his head. "I'm sorry to worry you."

Horatio leaned in close to his son, grasping his shoulder and squeezing painfully as he drawled, "Son, I think what Professor Lazarov would like to know—as would I—is why you didn't tell me you'd been invited to study with him this summer?"

_Because I figured you'd smack me and tell me to shut the hell up, I wasn't going anywhere!_ Abraxas shouted in his mind. He had far more sense than to say it out loud. "I…I just thought he'd made the offer to be kind," he said softly. His shoulder was beginning to throb. "I don't want to waste his time."

"Training a healer is not a waste of time, young man," said Lazarov forcefully. "You are one of the elite, one of only three I have ever taken under my wing. Surely your father sees the value in your continued instruction?"

He glanced expectantly at Horatio, who was busy scowling at his son. Horatio made an effort to smile as he turned to the teacher, letting go of the boy. "Yes, I feel Abraxas ought to return to Durmstrang to finish his lessons this summer. Where is the permission form, son?"

"In my room," murmured the boy. Horatio's _then-get-your-arse-busy-and-fetch-it_ glare made him scuttle out. He ran to the stairway before stopping to think. "_Accio_ form." A moment later the rolled parchment came sailing down the stairs into his hand, and he returned to the parlor to hand it to his father.

Horatio unfurled the paper, read it quickly, and strolling to the secretary desk in the corner of the room, he picked up a quill to sign his name with a flourish. He gave the paper over to the professor. "There you have it. Of course, this will be the last summer Abraxas will be at Durmstrang. I and my wife thank you for your attention to our son."

He nudged Abraxas, who agreed hurriedly, "Yes, sir. Thank you very much for your assistance and encouragement. I'll go pack my things."

"And he'll join you next week," finished Horatio, smiling with his lips only. "His coming of age party had to be delayed until he got home from school, and it's set for Saturday. You are invited, of course, Professor Lazarov."

"No, I think not," said the teacher slowly. "I don't wish to make myself a nuisance, or force my way in. Abraxas, enjoy your party, and I'll see you Monday, then." He got up, shook hands with the two, and followed Horatio to the door.

The second he was gone, Horatio stomped back into the parlor to confront his son, fury shooting from every part of him. "You little piss-ant, you deliberately didn't tell me your teacher wanted you there! Were you trying to make me look bad, is that it?"

"No, sir!" Abraxas edged across the room till he struck the coffee table and could go no further. "I thought you didn't want me to go, so I didn't mention it….and Mother misses me, so…" He chewed his lip nervously, waiting. He didn't have long to wait.

Horatio slapped him on general principles, leaving a red mark on his cheek and slicing open his lip. "You'll have your party, you'll do your summer internship at Durmstrang, then you're going to Hogwarts for your final year."

Abraxas lowered his hand from where he'd been wiping at the blood seeping from his lip. "W-what? Why?"

"Because I said so."

_Because I have people who care about me at Durmstrang, you mean._ "That's not fair," Abraxas said in a low, even voice. A backhand jerked his head to the side, leaving a red weal on the opposite cheek, but he refused to give up so easily. "You made me quit Hogwarts, now you're making me quit Durmstrang. I deserve a real reason."

"You deserve whatever the bloody hell I give you, you smartmouth bastard!" shrieked his father, whacking him upside the head. It knocked him onto the table, where he sat heavily, face down, struggling not to scream or fight back. "But here's a good reason: you've now got contacts and friends at Durmstrang, but your life is here in England. You need to make political and social connections here, and school is an ideal location to make that happen. In fact, your mother is the one who suggested it, and I agree with her."

_Only because you know it will make me unhappy, you despicable, heartless git._ "Mother didn't say anything to me."

"It was a surprise. We were going to announce it at your coming of age party." Horatio laughed at the expression on his son's face. "She thought you'd be delighted. I honestly couldn't care less. Now get out of my sight."

So that's the way it was going to be. Arguing would not only prove fruitless, it could be downright dangerous. Abraxas stood up and moved past his father on his way out the door, his jaw clamped so tightly it ached.

"What have you got to say, son?"

The young man halted in place, not turning. "You're my father and I obey you." Then, in a fit of pique he added, "I don't have to like it." He left, hands balled into fists, and stormed out the front door. Perhaps a long walk would help him calm down.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

Abraxas stood nervously on the balcony of the ballroom, looking down at the hundreds of guests that he'd only an hour ago greeted as they arrived. He knew many of them from years of his mother's soirees, though there were a few he suspected were old acquaintances of his father, as well as Ministry employees, including the Minister of Magic himself. It shouldn't come as a shock, should it, that the big guns would turn out for such an important function of one the members of a very wealthy, influential family? The guests appeared to be having a good time, mingling, drinking, conversing; the house elf, along with a few borrowed elves, scampered about in their crisp, cobalt blue tea towels, cleaning up spills, refilling bowls of food, refreshing drinks.

He glanced surreptitiously across the balcony to the skinny young girl with black hair swept up onto her head in a futile attempt to make her look older than her twelve years. She stood in front of her parents, the white gown hugging her non-existent hips very symbolic of the event about to occur. He mindlessly smoothed down his dark green robes and adjusted the high collar that seemed to be choking him about now. He found himself fiddling with the filigree pattern around the sleeves.

Nicolette leaned in to her son and whispered, which he barely heard over the sound of the orchestra below, "It's time, Abraxas. Are you ready?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said robotically. It didn't much matter if he was ready, did it? He'd been informed last week when he got home from school that this was to be his lot, and he accepted it for what it was. Throughout Malfoy history this was the way it had traditionally been done, with a few notable exceptions; it wasn't as if he expected anything different.

Horatio and Nicolette moved to the middle of the balcony, then came forward together, both dressed in opulent finery. Horatio motioned to the orchestra, who silenced their instruments, and the crowd below grew quiet as well, turning their faces to the pair above.

Holding his wand to his throat, Horatio smiled at the throng and said, "We thank you all for celebrating with us the coming of age of our son. I suppose by now you're wondering why he hasn't danced the traditional waltz yet."

There was a smattering of laughter and nodding of heads. It was typical to hold the waltz after the guests had all arrived, then let the party progress from there.

"We have some good news we'd like to share with you," Horatio went on, putting his arm around his wife as though they were a close couple, making Abraxas clench his teeth in irritation. He waved the tips of his fingers at Abraxas, beckoning him forward; at the same time the other family walked over to stand next to them, leaving the skinny girl directly beside Abraxas, the two of them center stage. "Nicolette and I, along with Mr. and Mrs. Prince, would like to announce the betrothal of our children, Eileen and Abraxas."

There was a momentary pause below, then the place erupted in spontaneous, sustained applause. A few shouts rang out, though Abraxas couldn't make out what they said. He assumed them to be some sort of well-wishes.

When the noise had subsided, Horatio made one last remark, "Obviously the wedding won't be for a few years, but we'll expect you all back for it. For now, allow my son his coming of age dance with his fiancée."

The music started up again. Feeling every eye upon him, Abraxas turned to his right and walked to the wide, curving staircase; at the same time, Eileen turned to her left and walked to the opposite staircase. As one they began their descent the way they'd practiced yesterday, at the same time they'd met for the first time.

As he made his way slowly down the staircase, casting furtive glimpses at Eileen to make sure they kept pace, he thought about her and her family. Eileen's mother was a friend of his mother, he knew that, but he'd never been to their manor that he could recall. From what Father said, they were far less wealthy than the Malfoys, had been losing their fortune over the centuries to bad luck—or mismanagement, which Horatio likely hoped to remedy himself. Despite the money issue, they were well-respected purebloods from a long line of near-nobility. The Malfoy matriarch and patriarch had decided that this was a good match for him, and who was he to argue? It wasn't as if he had anyone else lined up.

The youngsters reached the bottom of the stairs and approached each other. Abraxas took her hand, bowed, and she curtsied. Then he led her to the middle of the ballroom floor, where he swirled her in a circle, placed his hand on the small of her back, and began the intricate dance he'd learned from years of lessons as a boy. To his relief, Eileen had benefitted from such lessons as well, and she easily skimmed over the floor, following his every move, swaying and spinning with him as if born to it. At the end of the waltz, at the final dip, the crowd once more broke into hearty applause, and the couple left the dance floor to the congratulations and cheers of hundreds of people.

And so the party went on, with Abraxas dancing first with his own mother, then with Mrs. Prince, then mingling and thanking the guests for their sincere wishes. He sipped at champagne, shunning the firewhiskey offered, not daring to become even slightly tipsy on such an important day. Across the crowd he saw a hand waving at him; squinting against the darkened corner, he made out Frank Cullin, the doctor's son, and enthusiastically waved him over. In the past few years they'd met several more times—regrettably due to Horatio's savagery—and had become friends of a sort Abraxas had in no one else. Friends who could talk about the deepest issues they faced because he'd seen Abraxas at his weakest, most vulnerable periods, but saw in him the strength of a man. Friends who shared a love of healing and obscure spells.

Frank fought his way through the people until at last he reached Abraxas, and punched him lightly in the chest in a display of camaraderie. "Why didn't you tell me you were getting married?"

"I didn't know till last week," Abraxas admitted, grinning. He gestured with a tilt of his head that they should leave the room for some privacy, so Frank followed him into the back garden where the air was much cooler and fresher, the noise level manageable.

"You didn't know you were going to propose, you mean? Or that she was going to accept?"

"I mean, I didn't know Eileen till yesterday. My parents arranged the whole thing while I was at Durmstrang." Noting the odd expression, he snapped, "Don't look at me like that. You're pureblood, surely you're familiar with arranged marriages. My parents had one."

"Yeah," said Frank softly, "And look how that turned out."

"Most Malfoys have had them, and most had fairly happy lives, thank you very much."

Frank shook his head. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to denigrate the practice. I just…" He leaned in close, although there was no one in the vicinity. "I have a girlfriend…my parents don't know yet, but I plan to ask her to marry me."

"Can you do that?" asked Abraxas.

"I don't see why not. I'm not betrothed—and I'd better hurry up, since this night might be giving my parents ideas." Frank laughed, then grew serious again. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, why?"

"You're an adult now, and poised to be wed…seems like you ought to be happier. Then again, can't say I'd have wanted to be betrothed at seventeen." Frank grimaced into his champagne.

"You're only nineteen, and plan to become engaged. What's the difference?" said Abraxas with a quick look at the glass doors to make sure his father wasn't searching for him. He'd really prefer not to end the night with a quarrel…or worse. He'd gladly take a quarrel over what he invariably ended up with.

"A lot can happen in two years," Frank argued amiably, not missing Abraxas' tenseness. "Come on, I can't keep the man of the hour away from his own party. Let's go in." He opened the door, waving in Abraxas, as he went on, "Oh, and did I tell you about this new program I learned about? You go for a year to another country, acting as village healers…"

(A/N to yay: Horatio cursed his wife to make her suffer, most likely because she'd pissed him off in the past. He doesn't want her dead, at least not quickly, and if he did kill her he'd probably be arrested. He locks and wards his room every night so no one can come in to harm him while he sleeps, because he knows what a shit he is. As to the question of the generations getting better…not really. Most of the Malfoys through the ages have been like either Abraxas or Lucius (or a combination of the two) in temperament and disciplinarian attitude; a select few have been nutcases like Horatio. None have been lenient or soft on their children. I think Draco will turn out more like Lucius because he's been spoiled more than most Malfoys, but in a few generations we may have it back to the Abraxas type.)


	5. Chapter 5

9

Father, My Father—Chapter 5

**1 September 1946**

Abraxas stood awkwardly with the first years, who squirmed and pushed ahead trying to get a look at the goings-on with the Sorting Hat; being a good foot taller than any of them, Abraxas merely looked over their heads from the back of the crowd, wishing it were over. He felt the sting of curious eyes upon him from the four tables representing the four Houses, and tried to appear nonchalant. They were on the 'L's, soon it would be his—"Abraxas Malfoy," rang out the Deputy Headmaster's voice.

Legs shaking slightly, he straightened up and made his way through, trying not to shove the smaller students in his haste. Why did he have to go through this again? He'd already done it as a firstie, before Father took him out and placed him in Durmstrang. But the Deputy Headmaster had insisted, despite his protests, so here he was. Taking a calming breath, he sat on the stool, which seemed quite short now that he was no longer a child. His knees poked up toward his chest. The Hat was placed on his head, and he waited.

"_Ah, we meet again_," said the Hat into his brain. "_Last time I sorted you into Slytherin based on family history, but you've changed_."

"_Just put me into Slytherin_," Abraxas thought in return.

"_That wouldn't be best for you_."

"_I don't care_."

"_Ravenclaw is where you'd excel to your full potential_."

"_My family's all been Slytherin!_" the boy asserted vehemently.

The Hat was silent for a few moments, as if thinking back, then it said, "_Your grandfathers, your ancestors, yes. But your father did not attend Hogwarts. I have no memory of him_."

"_Are you really going to argue with me over semantics?_" asked Abraxas before realizing he was, indeed, arguing with a Hat.

_"It's time to shake things up, Abraxas_." Before the youth had time to process what it meant, the Hat shouted, "_Ravenclaw!_"

The Ravenclaw table burst into applause and cheers, and he thought he heard a few girls shrilly shouting their pleasure. If it weren't for the fact that his father would be livid to discover he'd got himself cast into another House, he'd let it be. That, however, was not an option…not if he wanted to live to graduate.

He stood up, back rigid, pulled the Sorting Hat from his head, and thrust it at the Deputy Headmaster. "I won't."

"You won't what?" asked the old man, bewildered.

"I won't be Ravenclaw." He started to walk toward the Slytherin table, but the wizard grasped his arm and pulled him back.

"Young man, see here—"

"No!" he snapped, yanking his arm free. "It's not fair, I already—"

By now Headmaster Dippet had got up and come round the staff table, descending the steps to where the two wizards were disputing. He wore a red cap much like a pointed nightcap over his nearly bald pate, and the ball on the end flittered as he moved. "What's the problem here?" he asked softly, so the students nearby couldn't eavesdrop.

"This boy refuses to be sorted into Ravenclaw," said the Deputy Headmaster.

"I was here in my first year—first term," Abraxas said when the headmaster looked to him for an answer. "I got sorted into Slytherin then."

"It seems the Hat now thinks you belong in Ravenclaw," remarked Dippet.

"How can it do that?" Abraxas squeaked, becoming desperate. "It can't change me now!"

"Well, this is a dilemma," said Dippet.

Horace Slughorn, who'd been observing from the staff table, had come down upon hearing the name of Slytherin mentioned. He cleared his throat gently. "Headmaster, if I may? This young man has already been sorted, yes? Do we re-sort the other students as they grow and mature? If we did, I daresay a lot of us would be moving Houses."

"Excellent point, Horace." Dippet turned to Abraxas, extending his hand and saying loudly for the whole of the Great Hall to hear, "We will recognize the Hat's first sorting. Welcome back to Slytherin House. Mr. Malfoy, is it?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you," replied Abraxas with unutterable relief. The last thing he needed was for his father to come to Hogwarts to bitch out the Headmaster, then beat his son bloody for not being placed in the traditional House.

"Hello, Abraxas," said Slughorn to the youth. "I seem to vaguely recall that blond hair of yours when you were a tyke in the common room, then you were gone."

"My father sent me to Durmstrang," he responded with a shrug.

"Well…welcome back." He gestured for Abraxas to take his seat at the Slytherin table, while another student came forward to have the Sorting Hat placed on her head.

Giving a slight bow, Abraxas proceeded to the Slytherin table, where the students had commenced clapping for him. One, a skinny second year girl with black hair, was clapping extra-heartily and gazing dreamily at the newcomer.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

**October 1946**

"Want to study with me?" Eileen proceeded to sit down beside Abraxas at the library table, dumping her stack of books into the middle out of the way.

Abraxas glanced sidelong at her. "We don't have any of the same classes, Eileen. I'm five years above you."

"But we can sit here together and study," she persisted. "Maybe you can help me."

He sighed, suppressing a frustrated groan. So this was how it was going to be all year? Her following him around, wanting to be with him all the time, despite his evident lack of interest? At least she left him alone in the Great Hall during meals—he'd made sure of that first thing, telling her she ought to stay with her class like the rest of the kids. If only he could get her to stay away from him the rest of the time! He felt guilty for thinking it, yet he couldn't help himself. She was a child, if he weren't engaged to her, he wouldn't even speak to her unless absolutely necessary. Sure, when she got older, old enough to understand more adult subject matters, maybe they'd have a basis for conversation, a foundation for their impending marriage, but right now they were nowhere close to that.

"What do you need help with?" he said finally.

She shuffled through her books and pulled out a thick volume. He looked at the title and snorted. "Potions? Eileen, don't waste my time. I happen to know you're very gifted at potion-making."

The girl's face burned red, and she snatched the book away. "So maybe I don't need help. Is it a crime to sit here with you? Your parents expect you to show me the proper respect."

Abraxas automatically sat up straighter and glanced left and right about the room. Was she sending them reports of his behaviour? If so, he could anticipate more than a severe thrashing when he went home for Christmas holiday. But no, his mother would have sent him a howler, or an owl at the least to tell him to shape up if she suspected he weren't treating Eileen right. And his father…well, he may be an obnoxious, abusive bastard, but he had a public persona to uphold, and he required his son to do the same. Ignoring his fiancée hardly fell into that category. From across the room he noted the librarian scowling at them to keep their voices down.

In a subdued tone he said, "Look, I'm busy right now. If you want to stay, stay, but let me get this essay written." Damn it, that didn't come out right. Surprisingly enough, it didn't set the girl off in a huff. She merely nodded and opened a book.

After half an hour, he got up to go fetch a book from the shelves, and as he strolled along searching for the right one, he ran across a seventh year Ravenclaw from his Arithmancy class. He made to go past her, but she moved into his path and smiled.

"Hi, Abraxas," she whispered.

"Hi, Cleo," he said softly.

She playfully put an arm up across the aisle, blocking him from going forward. "I've been wondering something. How come you didn't want to be in Ravenclaw? I've seen you in class, you're clearly clever enough."

"Because I was already in Slytherin," he explained tightly. _Not that it's any of your business._ "My family expected it."

"Figures," she said, shrugging her long brown hair off her shoulder. "Anyway, there's an outing to Hogsmeade this weekend. Want to come with me?"

Abraxas hesitated. She was attractive, he enjoyed talking to her in class, and he'd like to get out of the school for a while. Peering through the bookshelf at Eileen at the table alone, he slowly shook his head. "I can't. I'm sorry."

"Why not? We get on well, yeah?"

"Yes, I like you very much," he agreed. He twisted, pointing for her at the girl sitting alone. "But I'm betrothed to her."

Stunned, Cleo said nothing for a moment, then exclaimed too loudly for his comfort, "Her? You certainly don't act like it."

"It wasn't my idea; I barely know her," he replied shortly. She was pureblood—he thought—she ought to understand. "She's just a kid. Obviously we won't be wed for several years."

"So what's the harm of having your fun before you get married?" she wheedled, reaching out to stroke his face.

He backed away. "Cleo, please don't. If my parents got wind of me playing around with another woman—well, it wouldn't be pretty, believe me." An involuntary shudder ran up his spine.

"That's too bad, Abraxas," she said, leaning in to whisper in his ear and nipping him with her teeth in the process. She snickered softly as he lurched backward. "We could've had such a good time. If you change your mind, you know where to find me." She sauntered out from between the shelves, deliberately swinging her rear for his benefit.

Swearing under his breath, he yanked the book he needed from the shelf and stomped back to his table. Eileen looked up at him and smiled, making him feel angry and desperate and guilty all at once. In a fit of pique, he gathered up his things, mumbled an excuse about going to his room, and left in a hurry, forgetting to even check out the book.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

**December 1946**

"Frank, you don't have to stay for this," Abraxas said, shifting his feet nervously on the porch. His hand brushed the rail, knocking a clump of wet snow onto the ground.

"I'm here for moral support. That entails actually being here, right?" replied Frank with a grin. "You better make sure it's what you really want before you tell them…you know what could happen."

"I'm entirely aware, thanks for mentioning it," Abraxas retorted. He opened the door and motioned his friend inside, then followed him into the marble-floored foyer. "Fancy!"

The elf popped in and bowed to him, her little crown of roses tilting slightly to the side. "Yes, Master Abraxas? Is good Master needing Fancy?"

"Where are my parents?"

"Mistress is being in the main sitting room, Master Abraxas. Fancy doesn't know where Master Malfoy is being." She scooted next to him and forcefully tugged at his cloak to get it off him as she'd seen his father do numerous times, though from her vantage point down below it was much more difficult. "Fancy hangs Master's cloak." She pulled and snorted until at last he unlatched it and jerked it off, letting it fly over her head, knocking her to the floor. She gleefully stood up underneath it, dragged it off her, and threw it neatly onto the rack. "Does Master's friend wants Fancy to help?"

"No, thanks," said Frank, pulling his cloak about him more tightly. "Shall we?"

The two young men entered the sitting room to find Nicolette sitting in front of the fire sipping a glass of white wine. When she saw her son, she got up, smiling broadly, and opened her arms to him. He hugged her for a good, long moment, then moved aside to sit on the chair opposite hers. Frank sat on the sofa between them.

"How are you, son? Is school alright?"

"It's wonderful, Mother, thank you. You look well." He chewed his lip, a bad habit he hadn't yet broken himself of. He took a glass of lemonade from the tray Fancy offered, and Frank lifted a firewhiskey before rethinking his position and taking a lemonade instead.

Nicolette turned to the other young man. "Hello, Frank. I'm surprised to see you…you're not still in school, are you?"

"Hello, ma'am," he replied, feeling awkward. "No, I just came with Abraxas for—"

"I have something to tell you and Father, but I can tell you now, I suppose," Abraxas broke in. It was better to hear it from him. Taking a deep breath, he said, "I signed up for a program whereby a group of us tour numerous African villages, acting as healers for them."

Nicolette stared at him as if he'd grown a third eye, then gasped, "You're not a healer yet. How can you misrepresent yourself that way?"

Shaking his head, he corrected her, "It's an internship program. There are registered healers and doctors with a group of about twenty student witches and wizards. It counts toward our Healer's Degree, and it…uh…it lasts a year—the program, I mean."

Nicolette set her glass down, but it missed the edge of the table and landed on the floor, where it shattered loudly. She didn't seem to notice. "This isn't funny, Abraxas."

"It's not meant to be, Mother. We leave at the end of June, and you should come along."

She rounded on Frank, eyes blazing like grey sparks of fire. "This is your idea, isn't it? You're trying to take my son away!"

"Mother—"

"Yes, ma'am, it is. And no, I'm not." Unflinching, he casually took a sip of his lemonade while watching her over the rim of the glass. "I plan to go as well."

"Mother, Frank told me about it, but it's my decision to go. This is a great opportunity. Please come with me."

"I can't. You know I can't," she answered, falling dejectedly back into her seat. "Your father…" She didn't need to finish, he knew all too well that if she left, Horatio would spare no expense or manpower to find her and drag her home—and Abraxas, too, for causing his wife to shame him by running off.

"You should live for yourself, Mrs. Malfoy," said Frank. "Do what _you_ want to do."

Abraxas tried to shush him, but wasn't quick enough. Nicolette verbally pounced on Frank like a panther. "That's easy for you to say, young man. You're not bound to Horatio."

Grabbing at an opening, Abraxas said, "I'll be gone for a year. Will you be alright, Mother?"

She smiled wanly, taking another glass from Fancy's tray. "If you're determined to do this, we'll find out. Don't you even plan to ask your father's permission?"

"I'll be eighteen, I don't need his permission," replied Abraxas with an edge in his voice. "I'll tell him when he comes home tonight, and if he kicks my arse, so be it. I'm still going."

"Language, son," said Nicolette automatically.

Not hoping for another attack, Frank cautiously murmured, "Should I be on hand—just in case?"

"It wouldn't hurt," Abraxas returned soberly. In fact, it seemed a very good idea, since he was likely to be smacked around at the very least, horribly beaten if his father was in a particularly bad mood. The idea of his son leaving for another internship he'd not authorized wasn't going to set well with Horatio.

"What about Eileen?" asked Nicolette suddenly. "Have you told her?"

Abraxas paused for far too long. The girl hadn't even entered his mind. "No. I mean, I'm still going to be at school for the rest of the year, I can tell her then. Or I suppose I could send her an owl now."

Nicolette let out an exasperated clucking of her tongue. "She is your betrothed! For heaven's sake, son, you're going to be gone a year and she deserves to know! You will march yourself over there and tell her in person. And then you will invite her for Christmas dinner—and you will spend as much time with her as possible this holiday, is that understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," Abraxas said meekly. "But I'm not kissing her or anything. She's only my betrothed in name until she grows up."

"Nonetheless, you will treat her accordingly. Now finish your lemonade and tell me about this program…"

(A/N: In my universe, there is a difference between _healer_ and _doctor_. A healer is the basic mediwitch or mediwizard like Poppy or most of the staff at St. Mungo's. A doctor is more prestigious, has much more training—like a specialist, except it is specializing in all aspects of medicine, not just one. So notably when the Malfoys need someone, they typically call a doctor, like Dr. Cullin or later on Dr. Livingston.)


	6. Chapter 6

10

Father, My Father—Chapter 6

**December 1946**

Eileen peeked at Abraxas from under her voluminous hood, smiling to herself. He was so handsome, she loved looking at his chiseled white features, his white-blond hair that almost blended into the snow falling on it. Last week he'd told her he was going to Africa for a year, and today her future father-in-law had said Abraxas wasn't going to be leaving after all. They'd get to spend so much more time together! Shyly she slinked up closer to him, wishing he'd hold her hand, but he steadfastly kept his in his coat pockets. She wondered whether he was timid or if the presence of the older gentleman watching them, a hired chaperone, quelled his desire.

"The pond looks nice. Do you ever skate on it?" she asked, indicating the body of water ahead, frozen over and covered with snow.

"I used to sometimes when I was younger," he said. She hoped he'd go on, but he didn't.

"Can we?" Without waiting for an answer, she stepped gingerly toward the ice, scooting and slipping down the shallow embankment.

"Eileen, wait!" he called, tripping after her. He caught up and jerked her to a stop, took out his wand, and cleared the ice. Noting no cracks or other obvious dangers, he said, "It's okay. Go ahead."

"Come with me," she cajoled, taking hold of his sleeve and fairly dragging him along. They landed on the ice and Eileen propelled herself forward with a "Wheeee!" Her long dress robes billowed out behind her.

Grinning, recalling his younger days, Abraxas slid after her. "We should put on skates to do it properly," he called out.

"I've never worn skates, I don't know if I can," she replied, zipping off in the other direction.

"It's a lot of fun. I can teach you."

"Next time, then," she said, laughing. She ran and pushed herself off hard, sliding halfway across the pond before coming to a stop. "Beat that!"

He gamely took a few running strides and sailed across the ice, well past her mark, then turned back and smirked. "I think I just did."

They played for a while longer, Eileen laughing till she was out of breath. This was so much fun, she never wanted it to end. But it had to, of course. The winter days were short, and it was becoming colder and darker; the chaperone stood on the bank fidgeting as if he wished they'd hurry up and go in the house.

"Once more!" she shouted, twisting round to catch sight of her fiancé, but he wasn't where she'd left him. She did a full spin, and suddenly her left foot slipped out from under her. She fell onto the ice with a hard thud, her dress sprawling about her in a most unladylike manner.

Abraxas was upon her in a moment, reaching down to her, but when she grabbed his arm and pulled his boots slipped as well and he crashed on top of her. They wrestled together on the slippery ice, pushing and pulling each other until at last he regained his footing and hoisted her to her feet, clasped in his arms.

"Are you alright? Did you hurt yourself?" he asked.

"No…I'm okay," she said in a small voice, thrilled to be in his arms no matter how it came about.

"We should go in now. It's getting dark." So saying, he trudged up the embankment, pulling her along by the hand, but as soon as they reached the top, he let it drop and motioned for the chaperone to follow.

They entered through the back door, stomping the snow from their boots and shaking it from their coats. Fancy insisted on taking their wraps, which weighted her down and covered her so completely she resembled a moving ball of laundry. They'd only gone into the main sitting room to warm up by the fire when Horatio came in, a vexed expression on his face.

"I was watching you from the balcony of my room, son," he said, a hard edge in his voice. "You think you're clever, pawing the girl when you think no one will notice?"

"What?" asked Abraxas, truly mystified.

"I saw you!" thundered the man, stepping in closer, the cane in his hand now evident. "I will have no misconduct before the wedding, no reason for anyone to presume there is hanky-panky going on."

"There isn't," said Abraxas quietly.

"Mr. Malfoy, I've been watching the youngsters all afternoon. I detected nothing inappropriate," the chaperone piped up.

"And that little demonstration of groping while they lay on the ice—if that's the way you do your job, you're fired." Horatio pointed to the door.

Stunned, the gentleman started to leave, then turned back to remark, "If Abraxas wanted to grope the girl, he'd do it at Hogwarts where there are no chaperones, not right there in front of me."

"Get out!" After the man had gone, Horatio snapped, "So is that it? You're getting cheap thrills at Hogwarts where I can't watch you?"

"Of course not!" Abraxas replied.

"And I should just believe you?"

Before Abraxas had time for an answer, the serpent-headed cane raised and lowered, whacking him hard across the back. Eileen gasped and lurched out of the way, backing into the corner, her eyes like black saucers in her face as she watched the cane strike again and again, with Abraxas doing his best to suppress any sound. After number six, Horatio let the cane fall to his side.

"You're lucky we have company, son. Just keep in mind I won't tolerate lasciviousness." He made a small bow to Eileen and said, "It's about time for you to go home, young lady. Say your goodbyes."

Nodding numbly as Horatio walked off to the far end of the room to give them a pretense of privacy, she approached Abraxas cautiously. He appeared to be unharmed, standing straight and tall, no emotion crossing his face. In a mere whisper she said, "Would you like me to make you a healing salve or a pain potion? I can send it by owl or floo."

"I'm fine, thank you," he said, giving the tiniest of smiles. "Have a good evening."

"Alright, well…goodbye." Troubled, she stepped into the floo and was gone.

Abraxas turned to his father, fury shooting from his eyes, chest heaving from suppressed rage. "Why do you have to be such a—I wasn't touching her in any way except to get her off the ice, and you know it! Even if you thought I was, you didn't have to hit me in front of her!"

"Ah, but I did," Horatio drawled. "Even if you're not interested in her, she's captivated by you. She must understand what happens if she lets her desires get out of control. I won't have her getting pregnant before the wedding, and that is that." He whirled and stalked from the room.

Shaking from pain and anger, Abraxas removed his wand from his pocket and aimed it at the back of the retreating figure.

As if sensing it Horatio stopped in place, his back to the boy, and said calmly, "I wouldn't advise it, son." He turned his neck to peer over his shoulder. In a mocking tone he added, "Trust me." Then he continued on his way with the eyes of his son burning a hole in him.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

**February 1947**

An old muggle phonograph, powered by magic, rasped along on a scratchy album by a band no one in the room had ever heard of—even the muggleborns were too young to know the group—except Slughorn himself, who hummed along as he drifted from person to person, mingling. This St. Valentine's Day party, here in his quarters, was the best to date. He'd gone all out decorating the place in pinks and reds, little cupids with bows and arrows hovering in the corners, hearts hanging in midair everywhere. And the food! Red punch that indeed packed a wallop, even though it contained no alcohol, devil's food cake, muggle chocolate candies with hard outer shells in a variety of colours, finger foods provided by the kitchen elves. Yes indeed, the students were having a gay old time.

"Abraxas, I'm so glad you could come. And I see you brought Miss Prince."

"Yes, sir. She's my betrothed." Despite trying to look pleased, he was sure the teacher noticed the lack of true delight in the prospect, the sense of obligation in bringing such a young girl instead of a date his own age. He made a mental note to work harder at his mask.

Slughorn, to his credit, made no comment on it, he simply turned to the girl and said, ""Eileen, the best Potions student in her year—possibly in all of the school apart from you, Abraxas." Eileen beamed as he continued, "Next year I am certainly going to invite you to join the Slug Club, my dear."

Eileen smiled so broadly it seemed her face might crack. "Thank you, sir."

"My pleasure. Abraxas, I have been meaning to ask you: I don't often find such talent as you possess, and I know you were at Durmstrang. Did you study under Lazarov?"

"I learned everything I know from him," answered the boy truthfully, grinning.

"He is an excellent teacher, a good friend of mine. You're lucky." Slughorn took a swig from his cup, noting the pupils had none of their own. "Young man, are you going to attend to your lady? Drinks are on the table with the food, next to the fireplace."

"Of course, sir." He made a small bow. "Thank you for inviting us, we shouldn't monopolize your time." So saying he gestured for Eileen to follow him to the punch bowl.

"Isn't this nice?" Eileen squealed, dancing along behind him across the room, dodging students.

"I guess," he said staidly.

He endured the Malfoy soirees because he had no choice in the matter, his participation was mandatory and always would be because he was a Malfoy. Even when he was older and became master of the house, he'd be expected to throw parties in which he played a large role. It was an accepted fact of life. Conversely, he wasn't required to be here, and wished very much that he was not…at least not with Eileen. He'd like to talk to the other girls in the room rather than stay with her all evening, and then he felt guilty for wishing it, felt like he needed to make it up to her by showing her a good time.

It was past eleven when he and Eileen left the party and returned to the Slytherin dungeons. The common room was nearly empty, all except a couple snuggled by the fire and two boys on a sofa along the wall, speaking in hushed tones. Abraxas studied them briefly; Milton Avery was a sixth year Slytherin, his family prominent in the community. Cosmo Yaxley, a seventh year, was a Hufflepuff…what was he doing here in the Slytherin common room? That was most unusual. Come to think of it, he'd seen the two together on more than one occasion, also highly curious.

"What are you looking at?" challenged Avery, noting the boy and girl staring at them.

"Nothing," said Eileen, hurriedly turning her head.

When Abraxas wasn't so quick to do the same, Yaxley muttered, "Got a problem?"

Abraxas shook his head, shrugging. "Just wondering."

"Wondering what?" demanded Yaxley.

"If you're…together," said Abraxas, crossing his fingers and holding them up for the boys to see.

Avery flushed to the roots of his hair, bawling loudly, "I have a girlfriend, Malfoy! Just 'cause I have a friend over doesn't mean anything."

Putting his hands up, palms out, Abraxas smiled and moved a step back to show he had no hostile intentions. "Not meaning to cause a fight."

"We have important stuff to talk about is all," Avery went on, feeling the need to justify himself now.

"Talk away, don't let me bother you," Malfoy replied, moving to the end of the room where the stairs divided into boys' and girls' staircases. To Eileen he said, "It's late. Thank you for a lovely evening, and goodnight. I suppose you need to go to bed."

"I'm not a baby," she shot back. "I'll be thirteen tomorrow."

"Oh, right!" Abraxas hurriedly dug through his pocket and pulled out a small box, which he handed to her. "This is for you."

"Thank you, but my birthday isn't till—"

"I know, but it's nearly midnight, and tomorrow I have a lot of studying to do." Could he have sounded any less romantic? Then again, he didn't want to sound romantic, did he? Damn it, he hated this! Why couldn't his parents have betrothed him to a girl closer to his own age—oh, yes, there weren't any pureblood enough and high status enough in his age category. That didn't help how he felt.

Eileen opened the box to reveal a silver chain bracelet with tiny emeralds between the links all the way round. She gasped out loud, her jaw dropping. "It's beautiful! Did you pick it out?"

"Well, um, no. My mother did."

"Oh." She picked up the bracelet and held it up to examine it. "Well, thank you all the same, it is lovely." She hesitated, then came in for a quick hug. She dared not linger after having seen how Mr. Malfoy treated his son when suspected of immoral activity. "Goodnight, Abraxas."

"Goodnight, Eileen." There was a pause as he considered whether he ought, but it _was_ her birthday. "Would you like to come to Hogsmeade with me tomorrow? I know second years aren't supposed to, but if you're with me, just this once, maybe they won't notice."

"What if they do notice and we get in trouble?" she asked timidly.

"Then I guess we can spend your birthday together in detention," he said, grinning. "Goodnight." He needed to go to his room and work on his disillusionment charm to hide the girl as they left the castle.

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**30 June 1947**

"You may as well stop pouting, son. Your friends already left today on their little expedition, and not one of them seems to care that you aren't among them. Not even Dr. Cullin's insolent offspring." Horatio finished off the goblet of deep red wine and set it down. He peered past his wife down the dining table to Abraxas, who sat silently with head bowed, jaw tight. "Well?"

Not looking up, Abraxas muttered, "I don't know what you want me to say, Father."

"It's not the end of the world," Nicolette broke in, patting her son's back. "One day maybe you'll get a chance—"

"Nicolette, darling," said Horatio, stressing the second word sarcastically, "I'm doing fine without your help. Abraxas, go to your room if you're going to be unpleasant. I don't wish to see it. And stay there till morning."

The young man got up so abruptly his chair tipped over behind him. He glared at it, then at his father as if challenging him to say something, then stomped from the room. To his surprise, Horatio let him go without shouting or demanding he pick up the chair and act respectfully. _ Probably too busy gloating about getting his way_, he seethed inwardly. He crashed up the stairs, down the hallway, and into his room, where he slammed the door with as much force as he could muster. He doubted they'd hear it all the way in the dining room, but it made him feel a tad better anyway.

He threw himself onto the bed, arms crossed, and lay stiffly on his back ruminating about the whole affair. Frank had contacted him yesterday via owl, asking if the elder Malfoy had had a change of heart. Fat chance! He'd been forced to respond that he was still forbidden to go. That had been the extent of anyone's involvement, though to be fair what did he expect? None of the instructors on the team knew about his home life, they'd naturally assume he'd changed his mind or something had come up and he was unable to attend, despite the hefty price he'd paid for the opportunity.

He got up slowly and went to his dresser, opened the top drawer, and stared down inside. Next to his cuff links was a plain gold tie pin…he hadn't known what it was till Frank explained to him that muggles wore wretched ropes about their necks that they called 'ties'. It simply looked like a thin strip of gold jewelry, nothing to get excited about. He picked it up, rolling it over in his palm for a long moment.

All at once he set his mouth in a hard line, his grey eyes taking on a resolute air. This was his life, and by God he was going to live it or die. Setting the tie pin on top of his dresser, he began pulling clothes from his drawers and tossing them onto the bed; he _accio_'d his largest suitcase from the closet, along with a good number of robes, and using his wand shrank them and packed them all neatly into the suitcase. Next went toiletries, though Frank had assured him those would be provided. He glanced around the room to see if he'd forgotten anything. Shoes. Into the suitcase went two pairs of heavy dragonskin boots. That should do; if not, he could buy or borrow whatever he needed. Money! He emptied his complete stash from the lower drawer into his wallet and slipped it into his pocket.

_Knock, knock, knock._ Abraxas' heart almost leapt from his chest. He hurriedly shoved the suitcase under the bed as far as it would go, being packed to the limit and then some, and rounded the bed to open his door. "Yes, Mother?"

"I wanted to say goodnight, son. I'm sorry…I know you wanted to go on that trip."

"It's alright," he said, leaning on the doorframe so she didn't try to enter the room. He hoped she didn't notice his rapid breathing or hear his heart thudding so loudly he could barely hear anything else. "Goodnight, Mother. I love you."

"I love you, too, Abraxas." She hugged him, and he held onto her very tightly. "One day things will be different."

"Yes, I believe they will," he said softly before pulling away from her. "Goodnight." He watched her go down the hall to her own room and close the door, then he locked his door securely.

Alright, time to make a plan. He went to his writing desk, sat down, and took a length of parchment. He sat there for quite a long time, contemplating what to say, and at last he wrote:

_Dear Mother,_

_I'm sorry to leave this way, but I saw no option. This is the only chance I'll get to complete my Healing Degree. Please don't be angry with me. I'll make you proud, I promise. Once I have my degree, I'll be able to acquire a good job at the Ministry of Magic in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. They need people like me, with healing skills. I'll be thinking of you._

_Ever your dutiful and loving son, Abraxas_

Well, that was sort of pitiful, wasn't it? He'd be gone a year and that was the best he could do? But he dared not say too much, dared not let Father think Mother had anything to do with it. Speaking of which, he probably ought to write something to his sire, but what? He honestly had nothing to say to him—nothing that wouldn't get his mouth slapped, at any rate. He took another sheet of parchment.

_Dear Father_

He stopped, took out his wand, and amended the paper to read 'Father' only.

_Father,_

_All my life you have told me what to do, and I have obeyed you. I cannot do so now. This is my future, my career, and I must forge ahead if I ever hope to make something of myself. If I land a position in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, it will reflect well on the Malfoy name. I know that's important to both of us. It will be pointless to search for me, since we will be moving around frequently. And even if you managed to find me, you can't very well drag me away in front of all those people without making a huge scene that will sully your reputation. By the time I return, I hope you will have forgiven me._

_Your son, Abraxas_

He set down his quill, capped the ink, and got up to place the two pieces of parchment on the bed, side by side. Drawing a deep breath, he looked around the room one last time, lifted the suitcase into his hand, and picked up the tie pin. He went out onto his balcony and shut the door quietly behind him, steadied himself, and pressed the latch on the back of the pin. Instantly he was sucked away.

He landed on his rear end, his suitcase on top of him, outside an encampment of about thirty people, many of them sitting round a large fire. There appeared to be no civilization anywhere within view, unless one counted the number of tents blanketing the area. Then again, Frank had told him the rendezvous point was out in the middle of nowhere to avoid muggle detection. Blinking and breathing deeply, he stood up and approached the fire; before he'd got there, a middle-aged man with a clipboard came up from the side.

"Hello there! And you are?"

"Malfoy…Abraxas Malfoy."

The man scrolled down his list with one finger, then tapped the name before checking it off. He nodded and smiled pleasantly. "Welcome, Abraxas. I'm Clive, I'm the administrator, here to answer any questions you have and to make sure everything goes smoothly. I believe you're slated for the tent in the corner over there." He pointed to the far end, beyond the people singing and talking at the fire. "Get a good night's sleep, because we leave for Africa very early in the morning."

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"Good morning, son." Nicolette tapped on his door again. "I know you're awake." She tried the door, to her astonishment finding it locked. "Abraxas, open this door!"

Down the hall, past the staircase, Horatio was walking her way. Noticing her outside their son's room, he strode over to see what the fuss was about. He twisted the knob, which refused to give. "Abraxas, open this door immediately! I've had enough of your sulking!"

No response. Horatio snapped his fingers and his cane flew to him from his room. Catching it with one hand, he drew his wand from the end and unlocked the door with an _alohomora_. He stormed in, poised to give the boy hell, to find the room empty, the bed unmessed…and two pieces of paper waiting to be read.

(A/N: In my stories, Tom Riddle is three years older than Abraxas, so he has already graduated, though Avery and Yaxley are two of his early followers.)


	7. Chapter 7

8

Father, My Father—Chapter 7

**1 July 1947**

Abraxas read over the list of names of people who'd come on the journey; they'd come from all over England, one from Scotland, another from Wales. He didn't recognize any of them except Frank, though he didn't presume he ought to. Besides, he'd not recognized anyone by face, either. Maybe it was for the best; when they wrote home to tell their families where they were, Horatio Malfoy wouldn't be afforded the opportunity to finagle information from the unsuspecting family members. It had been less than twelve hours since he'd escaped from the prison he called home, yet it seemed so long ago. He handed the list back to Clive with a crisp thank you.

He attached the nametag Clive had given him to the front of his robes—or more aptly, his high-necked tunic shirt, for long robes were discouraged here due to the heat. Though he wore trousers and boots whilst some others wore shorts, he still felt almost naked in public without an over robe. He turned around and bumped right into a petite young lady passing by, knocking her off kilter. He snatched her arm to keep her from landing in the dirt.

"I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going," he gushed sincerely, righting her and swiftly backing off, his eyes scanning her nametag. "Thalia. I'm sorry, Thalia." He pronounced her name with the 'th' as in 'thing'.

"It's alright," she said softly, smiling. "And it's pronounced without the 'h'—it sounds like Talia. Like Thomas, you know…it has an 'h' but you don't hear it…" She drifted off. All her life she'd been explaining it, and it grew wearisome.

My God, she had a beautiful smile, and he couldn't stop himself from smiling with her. "You mean _Th_omas," he teased, enunciating the 'th' sound again.

"Very clever…Abraxas," she said, reading his tag. "Or should I say 'Brax'?"

"Abraxas will be fine," he answered, unable to stop smiling. Her voice was like lilting music.

"Brax it is," she said. "Well, I've got to pack my tent, we leave in five minutes." She nodded and swerved around him.

With an odd feeling growing in his chest, he watched her as she headed across the field, most of which had been cleared, the participants of the journey huddled in a mass waiting for the portkey that would carry them to their first destination. He hadn't realized he'd stood there observing her the entire time she packed up her tent until he heard Frank clearing his throat behind him.

"She's cute, huh?"

"What?" Abraxas spun around, flushing to the roots of his white-blond hair. "I—I guess. I'm not exactly in the market for a woman, I wouldn't know."

"Just because you can't touch doesn't mean you can't look," Frank advised him sagely.

Shame washing over him, and not entirely sure why, Abraxas swiftly picked up his suitcase and the tent poles and joined the rest, who were now forming a giant ring. Clive took a long, coiled rope that was set at his feet and began passing one end along, and each person in turn passed it until it came round back to Clive, leaving a circle of rope that every person held onto tightly. When he gave the signal, they all braced themselves, and a second later they were portkeyed out.

They landed on a hot, arid plain, some standing, others knocked to the ground. Waves of heat radiated up from the dry earth, even so early in the morning. Clive began rolling the rope into a coil once more. "Alright, people, we're here on our first stop. Within the hour the elders of the nearest villages will be leading their sick to us. If it goes the same as every year, we've got a long day ahead of us, so everyone get into your respective groups. I've already set up numbers for your stations. Number one for broken bones, sprains, things like that…number two for contagious illnesses, and so on." He clapped his hands loudly. "Let's go, get those tents up and then attend to your stations."

There was a general scuffled pandemonium while everyone hurried to find a good spot and do as they were told. Abraxas and Frank, tent mates, selected a spot near an old, twisted dead tree—more for identification purposes than actual shade—and had their tent up in a matter of seconds, thanks to a spell Clive had taught them all the prior evening. They set their belongings inside, then Abraxas shot a spell inside the tent, went outside, and circled the tent while reciting an archaic chant.

"What are you doing?" asked Frank.

"To keep out scorpions and other creepy-crawlies," Abraxas explained shortly. "You may like them, but I don't."

"If you're done, come on. I don't want to be late on the first day."

"We've got like twenty minutes," Abraxas argued, though he followed his friend over the long stretch of nothingness to where large numbers floated in the air over stations set up with makeshift tables, equipment, and supplies. Here in Africa, where the general populace believed in and revered magic, there was no need to hide their true nature from the muggles.

Next to Station Three—Congenital Problems—sat a young woman on a low, flat rock using _aguamenti_ to fill a canteen with water. As the two wizards approached, Frank said, "Abraxas, have you met Thalia? She's assigned to our unit." Frank nudged the young lady in the buttocks with the toe of his boot. "Hey, Thalia, this is Abraxas, he's in our group."

The young woman flicked her long blond hair off her face with a frustrated air. She glanced up at the men and said, "We've met." Standing up, she looked Abraxas up and down. "So, we're going to be together every day, Brax? I guess we could do worse." She smirked as she closed her canteen and hung it from the pole supporting the awning.

"You could try to be a little more enthusiastic, _Th_alia," he returned, smiling smugly, emphasizing the 'th' sound again.

"Is this everyone?" An older witch walked up, frowning, her white hair pulled into a tight bun on her head. With her was a middle-aged, unassuming man who seemed perfectly content to let her do the talking. "Young lady, put that hair up out of the way—that goes for any wizards with long hair as well," she added when a dark-haired man with streaming locks that any woman would envy came running up. Both Thalia and the wizard quickly secured their hair out of the way. "My name is Doctor Hodgins. You may call me Doctor Hodgins. I don't hold with that 'young people addressing their elders as equals' malarkey." She motioned to her companion. "This is Healer Spencer. You will call him—"

"Healer Spencer," they all intoned with her, and the witch nodded with satisfaction.

Frank raised his hand, which Abraxas was almost tempted to slap down. This witch didn't look like she wanted questions. "Ma'am? Will we be with you the entire year, or…" Her withering glower made him trail off.

"If you'd read the brochure, you'd have noted that one doctor and one healer are assigned to each station, and that you will remain in each station for three months. At the end of one year, you will have completed all four stations, encompassing every type of treatment. Therefore, you will be with me for three months, and I expect you all to work to your full potential. If you weren't capable, you would not have been selected. Are we clear?"

Every head nodded, including the young witch who'd slinked in as she was speaking.

Dr. Hodgins fairly growled, "You will all be on time from now on as well. And put your hair up!"

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

"I told you, Horatio, I didn't know anything about it!" Nicolette shrieked, running across the room to escape him. "You read this note he left, you can see he didn't tell me!" She frantically waved the paper in front of her.

Horatio paused, his brain stuck on blind rage. His son had sneaked out of the house in the middle of the night and run off to go on that African trip after being forbidden to do so. It just didn't quite register. Abraxas had never, ever defied him so openly, and he simply couldn't get his head around it. And the fact that the whelp obviously hadn't even told his mother…well, it didn't sound like Abraxas. He wasn't that inconsiderate. Huffing, Horatio paced up and down the room. Oh, he'd get hell when he got home, that's for damn sure! But in the meantime, could he let this stand? Let his brat of a son flout his authority this way? On the other hand, what alternative did he have? He didn't know where Abraxas was.

"Dr. Cullin!" he burst out.

"What?"

"Dr. Cullin's son was going on that trip. Maybe he knows where they are." Horatio snapped his fingers for his cane with the wand inside and headed for the fireplace in Nicolette's room, where they'd been quarreling.

"Horatio, wait!" Nicolette shrilled. "What about what Abraxas said in his letter? Even if you find out where he is, you can't very well haul him away in front of everyone." Not that she believed the good doctor had any more knowledge of the specifics than she did, or that he'd tell Horatio if he did know. But she'd rather he not get himself into a row outside the family.

"He deserves to be dragged away like a cur," Horatio snarled.

"And if you did, do you honestly think all those people wouldn't have their tongues wagging, owls flying, maybe even pictures snapped? The newspaper would have a holiday at our expense!" she retorted. "They'd paint you as an ogre, they'd have the front page filled with recriminations against the Malfoy name. Is that what you want?" _Though they'd be right about the ogre part_, she added silently.

Panting through his flared nostrils, he slammed the cane down on the floor. "What do you suggest, Nicolette?"

"Do nothing," she said simply. "I know you're angry that he disobeyed you, but it was only one time in his entire life, and for a good cause. When he comes home, he will explain himself. He'll be a degreed healer by then, he'll get a respectable job at the Ministry, get married and settle down, have an heir."

"I will not be treated with disdain by my own son, dear wife," Horatio said in a dangerous murmur. "Abraxas had better pray very hard that I get over my fury before he gets home. And that means _you_ had better not set me off, either. I'd _so_ hate to take out my anger on you." He threw a sneer her way and stalked from the room.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

**2 July 1947**

Evening had fallen, the villagers had long since gone, and Abraxas rested in his tent with Frank, his tent mate. He'd almost drifted off on his cot when he heard a very familiar call—an owl, but not just any owl: one of the Malfoy parliament. Sleepily he sat up, listening. There was a scratching at the door of the tent, and he crawled over to untie the laces. Sure enough, there stood Flynn, a huge white owl with black-tipped wings and spotted belly, tucking his beak into his wing to dig out an irritant. Seeing his master, he cawed and squawked, and did a little dance.

"Flynn, how the heck did you get all this way so fast? You had to have been sent yesterday morning…" About the time his parents discovered him missing. He brought the bird into the tent, released the parchment from its leg, and sat on his bunk to read it. "Frank, can you give Flynn something to drink and eat? Thanks."

Warily he unrolled the letter, used a _lumos_ to light the area, and read:

_My Dear Son,_

_Perhaps I cannot find you, but this owl undoubtedly will. Be entirely clear in your mind that you have severely disappointed me and made your mother very distraught. Without you here, she suffers so._

_Since I'm certain you didn't bother, I have taken the liberty of sending an owl to your betrothed, under the pretense of your own hand, explaining that your father magnanimously agreed to permit you to follow this fantasy of yours. You're welcome. If you have a brain in your head, you'll continue corresponding with her, or better yet forget this foolishness and come home. The more quickly you forsake your insubordination, the more lenient I shall be with you._

_ When you tire of playing in the wasteland, your mother and I await your homecoming._

_Your father, Horatio Malfoy_

Abraxas let his arm drop as if the bones had gone from his body. "I can't believe this. I have to go home."

Frank took the letter from his lifeless fingers and rapidly read it through. "Are you insane? He'll kill you! Can't you read between the lines?"

"I'm not stupid! That's why I have to go—he's hurting my mother because I left!"

"He's baiting you," Frank answered, his voice low and taut.

"And if it's genuine?"

Long pause, then Frank said, "Nothing against your mum, Abraxas, but for years she let your dad pound on you—"

"Shut up!" he replied hotly. It may be true, but this was his mother and he'd defend her. "Don't you talk about her."

Frank clucked his tongue in disgust. Maybe if screwed up families tried a little harder not to protect the wrongdoers, they wouldn't be so freaking screwed up! "I don't believe he's hurting her any more than he normally does. He's trying to trick you into returning home. And there is no way on Earth he'll be lenient or merciful with you, not after you rebelled against him and disobeyed him like this. He's livid, he feels like you made a fool of him."

"I have to know if she's alright," Abraxas said softly, his tone pained.

"Then send an owl and ask her."

Abraxas gave him a withering look. "Because he'd never intercept the owl, right?"

"Then owl Eileen." When Abraxas sat up straight, looking hopeful, Frank went on, "Ask her to meet your mum and give her the letter. You have to write to her anyway, so why not?"

"That's actually a really good idea, Frank. Thanks." Abraxas got on his knees next to his suitcase and dug through until he found his writing utensils and stationery. Holding the feather of the quill to his lips, he thought long and hard about what to say.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

**4 July 1947**

Exhaling with the utmost joy, Eileen lay back on her bed hugging her two letters to her chest. Yes, perhaps she ought to be sad that Abraxas had gone to Africa, but at least he was writing to her, which was kind of more conversation than she usually got from him. She took the first letter, dated the first of July, and unrolled it to read once more:

_Dear Eileen,_

_ I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to tell you goodbye. I don't want you to worry. Last night I finally wore my father down with arguments and nagging until he agreed to allow me to go on this trip I have my heart set on. I had to leave right away, with no time for visiting._

_ While I'm gone we obviously won't see each other, but rest assured you remain in my mind. I'll write you when I can. If I find I don't like Africa, I may be home much sooner than expected._

_Your betrothed, Abraxas_

Eileen sighed, rolled up the parchment, and unfolded the second one, sent apparently the following day, but not reaching her until today. She had to make note of that, the letters took at least two days by owl. This way she'd know that when she wrote, she ought not expect an answer for four days…possibly more if they went even further away.

_Dear Eileen,_

_ I know I just wrote to you, but this is important. I must ask you for a favour, and you mustn't tell anyone about it. Can you please find a reason to visit my mum—maybe get invited for tea or something—and give her the attached letter? You've seen what Father is capable of, I think you understand when I say he might keep it from her. I'm trusting you to help me, I have no one else to ask._

_ Thank you in advance, and I hope all is well with you and your family, and that you are content._

_Abraxas_

Eileen smiled to herself, sighing again. How romantic was this, to be part of a conspiracy between her betrothed and his mother, to be the liaison between them? The real danger of Horatio finding out made it all the more exciting. Of course she'd do this for Abraxas, she'd do anything for him…well, maybe not things her mother said good girls don't do before marriage, but Abraxas didn't seem interested in that anyhow. Tomorrow she'd owl Nicolette, ask to see her; after all, she had a right to get to know her soon-to-be-in-laws.


	8. Heart to Heart

9

Father, My Father—Chapter 8 Heart to Heart

**3 August 1947**

"Let's go, people, get this gear packed up before it gets dark." Doctor Hodgins waved an impatient hand at her group, who scurried to do as she bid them. One month under her tutelage had taught them to jump when she spoke, and jump they did.

The young man with long dark hair sprang to pack the vials of medicine in heavy cotton batting; one young woman began cleaning the surgical implements before stashing them, individually wrapped, in their containers. Using his wand, Abraxas arranged the bandages in order of size in a lightweight wooden chest, right before his instructor came by to inform him that he was to roll each one by hand, not wand, before placing them in their chest—and they were to be arranged by manner of usage, not size. He stopped himself from arguing that type of usage necessarily dictated size, but thought it wise to keep his mouth shut. He'd lived with his father long enough to learn to do that quite well. If she were testing him for patience, she'd find he could exhibit a bushel full and more. Frank had taken it upon himself to fold up the cots, after Thalia stripped them of sheets and blankets, which she would have hauled to the laundry area if there were one. Instead, she hung them in the air with her wand, then began the process of _scourgifying_ them section by section.

Within half an hour, everything was packed and ready to move on to the next location the following morning, everyone had drifted off…except for Abraxas, who sat on the ground with the surgical bandages in front of him, laboriously rolling each one by hand, then sterilizing it with his wand as he placed it into the chest, grumbling mightily in his mind. He knew why the doctor had required this of him, and it had nothing to do with rolling by hand or wand: she was punishing him…teaching him…for his error earlier in the day, when he'd misdiagnosed Meckel's diverticulum as a right-sided hernia in a two-year-old boy. And as if that weren't bad enough, he'd then misdiagnosed it _again_ as acute appendicitis when she called him on it! Not that he was far off the mark in either case, the symptoms did tend to overlap, to come and go, but it was a mistake he'd never make again, that's for sure.

Though the rest had gone, Thalia lingered behind, pitying Abraxas. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure Dr. Hodgins wasn't looking, she came over, sat down with him, and picked up one of the bandages to roll. "Got yourself in trouble, I see," she observed dryly.

He snorted gently. "It was an easy mistake to—no, there is no excuse," he retracted, correcting himself. "I can't afford to make mistakes, she's right to assign me extra work so I don't forget."

"That's a very mature attitude," said Thalia, sterilizing a roll and placing it in the chest. "I'd have probably bickered with her and gotten triple workload." She smirked, just barely visible under the hair draping both sides of her face.

"I can't imagine that," Abraxas replied softly. "You're too nice for that."

She chortled. "You've certainly never spoken to my professors from school!" She continued working, every so often slipping a glimpse his way. "Are you enjoying this expedition?"

"Yes. Aren't you?" he answered, surprised.

"Oh, yes. At first I wasn't sure I could bear this heat, and the long workdays, and being scolded when I make an error. I thought it would be…I don't know…different," she said, shrugging. "And don't ask different how, because I've no idea."

"Sounds to me like your answer ought to have been 'no', then," Abraxas commented, not halting in his task. "You don't appear to be enjoying it at all."

"I've learned loads," Thalia shot back, then softened her tone. "And I've met a lot of very kind, good people…like you. That alone makes up for everything else."

Abraxas felt the tips of his ears go warm, and knowing that he was blushing made him flush a deeper hue. Time to change the subject. "Did you know there's an annular eclipse coming up in November? It's on the other side of the world, though, don't know how much we'll be able to see from here."

"No, I didn't know that," she replied, looking slightly puzzled. "Are you an astronomer as well?"

"No, just a hobby."

"When do you find time for hobbies?"

He shrugged, grinning. "I grew up having to take dance lessons, piano lessons, horseback riding, archery—a slew of things. If I wanted to do anything of my own, I had to make time for it."

She laughed, and the sound warmed his heart. "With you around, Brax, I'd never grow bored."

"I should hope not," he said, basking in the sight and sound of her. He knew he shouldn't be so drawn to her, yet he couldn't help himself. Almost from the moment he first saw her, his heart no longer belonged to him. If he had ripped it from his chest and handed it to her, the result would have been the same; he felt bonded to her in a way he couldn't comprehend, weak when she wasn't around, desperate for any interaction with her. He tossed the last of the bandages into the box, closed it up, and stacked it with the rest of the supplies. "Looks like we're done. It's getting dark…may I walk you to your tent?"

"Alright," she said, suddenly shy.

A few minutes later they arrived in front of her tent, some distance away from his. Abraxas shuffled his foot in the dirt. "I had a really nice time this evening."

"You make it sound like we were on a date," Thalia said, not sure what to think.

"No! No, I—I just…had a good time is all."

"Me, too," she responded honestly. Before she could stop herself she added, "I like spending time with you." Damn it, now he'd think she was too forward!

There was an awkward pause, then he said, "You know, when we move to the new location tomorrow, you should set up your tent next to mine."

"Why? So I'd be closer to you?" she asked, mentally kicking herself. Good Lord, it sounded like she was cooing at him!

"Well," he hemmed, shrugging. "We're group members together, it makes sense for us to be near one another…and… and _that_—what you said." His face positively glowed now, and he was grateful for the semi-dark to hide it. "If it's alright with your tent mate, I mean."

"I don't think she'll mind." Another protracted, awkward pause. "Goodnight then."

"Goodnight." Abraxas held out his hand as he'd do for a man to shake, whilst Thalia came in for a brief hug. Fumbling through a strange combination of clumsy hug and handshake, they pulled apart. Suddenly throwing caution to the wind, Abraxas moved in, took her by the arms, and kissed her on the lips before taking a big pace back, breathless. "I should probably apologize for that."

"No. Don't."

"Thank you for helping me. Goodnight, Thalia," he said, a broad smile spreading over his face.

"Anytime. Goodnight, Brax."

She smiled back and entered her tent, trembling with excitement. A moment later she stuck her head through the tent flap to watch him walk away, and her joy doubled; the spring in his step seemed suspiciously like a dance step! When he twisted his head back once more and saw her watching him, he waved and laughed aloud and she ducked back inside. Sighing, she threw herself onto her cot, her arms wrapped round herself, and set to dreaming of the handsome blond wizard who'd just stolen her heart.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

**28 August 1947**

What was this? Horatio bent over and looked beneath the sofa of the main sitting room, where the tiniest corner of a parchment was sticking out. Things that didn't line up properly bothered him, and this didn't belong there. He picked it up curiously and unfolded it.

_Dear Mother,_

_I am so pleased to find you are well. I worry about you, but you already know that. Won't you consider my entreaty to go vacation in France while I'm away? Father can't stop you if you leave while he's out of the house. Go with Mrs. Prince, make a holiday of it._

Horatio stopped reading, his blood running cold in his veins. What manner of treachery was this, his own son admonishing his mother to run away as he'd done? Fairly panting with wrath, he scanned the rest of the letter, then clutched it in his sweaty palm as he paced the room. Oh, that boy had it coming now. If he weren't already in enough trouble, this had sealed the deal!

He'd paced for perhaps five minutes, re-reading the letter several times, working himself into a veritable fury, when all at once he stopped in the middle of the rug. This letter was dated four days ago; surely it had arrived at least yesterday, yet his wife hadn't seen fit to tell him…and what was this bit about 'consider my entreaty to go vacation in France'? Nicolette hadn't known Abraxas was leaving, so the brat hadn't spoken of it before that—which meant she'd received other letters she wasn't telling him about! Horatio bounded from the room, up the stairs, and into Nicolette's bedroom. She wasn't there.

"_Accio_ letters from Abraxas!"

Instantly three pieces of parchment unwedged themselves from beneath her mattress and flew toward him, where he plucked them from the air. His hands quaking from anger and confusion, he read them all quickly, his stomach lurching. Ever since Abraxas had left, he'd been writing to his mother—roughly every two weeks—and not one time had his dear wife made mention of it. For the most part it was simply the common, everyday things a son said to his mother while away, interspersed with nudges and hints that she flee her husband. Then in the final letter—though dated the earliest—Horatio felt a tad of vomit spew into his mouth.

…_and thank Eileen for me. If you're reading this, she has agreed to be my courier so that Father won't discover our letters…_

"That little son of a bitch!" he hissed. So that was why no owls had come to the house—they'd gone to Eileen Prince's home, and she'd given them to Nicolette. How very convenient for all involved. "Fancy!"

The house elf popped in, bowing low. "Yes, Master Malfoy? What can Fancy does for Master?"

"Find my wife and bring her to me. I don't care where she is or who she is with, you bring her now."

"As my master wishes." Fancy disapparated, and in barely two blinks was back with Nicolette in tow. "Mistress was in her parlor, Master," Fancy said, bowing again.

"Get out," he answered, and the elf did so immediately. He turned to the woman, who stared open mouthed at him, seeing the letters in his hand, the rage on his features. His tone lowered to almost inaudible. "My poor, silly wife. You are a pretty little thing, I must admit even after all these years, but you've never been terribly clever."

"Horatio, I can explain," she said through a constricted throat, though she really couldn't. How had he gotten the letters? Why had he even looked for them? Had Eileen told him something? And he'd read what Abraxas said. Of course he was furious!

"When I asked you if you'd heard from our errant son, you lied to me repeatedly, my dear. Now I find you in league with Eileen Prince and Abraxas, all of you against me. How am I supposed to feel about that? Please, do tell." His oddly calm tone sent waves of terror through her.

"It's not like that, Horatio," Nicolette said in a mere whisper. Her voice seemed to have deserted her. "Abraxas was afraid you'd throw out the letters—"

"No, he was afraid I'd intercept them and find out what he was up to," Horatio corrected her. "And he was right. He's abandoned the family and now he expects you to do the same. Well, that is not going to happen, is it?"

"No," she said, shaking her head vehemently. "I have no intention of leaving—that's why he keeps pressing me, he knows I won't do it."

Horatio advanced on her ever so slowly, letting her fear build to a fever pitch. As he raised his hand for the first slap, he intoned, "This duplicity will stop today. Need I remind you that you brought this entirely upon yourself…"

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

Horatio rubbed at his skinned knuckles. He ought to have made Nicolette heal them before he left the house, but frankly she wasn't in any shape for that. She'd got what she deserved for her deceit and betrayal, he'd done what needed to be done. Now he had to confront Eileen, but it wouldn't be so clear cut with the faithless child. If he smacked her up as she deserved, George Prince would take offense and call him out; Prince was no slouch with Dark Arts himself, and if it came down to a duel between them, one or both might be killed. Not the ideal circumstance for joining their children in wedded bliss. He snorted at the image.

There was, however, a weak spot in Eileen's armour—a glaringly weak spot that he'd have little trouble exploiting. What did she want above all things? To marry Abraxas, of course. "Ah, Eileen, thank you for meeting with me on such short notice," he said, smiling benignly as the girl walked into her parents' parlor. "I won't take but a moment of your time."

"Hello, Mr. Malfoy," she said, giving a tiny curtsy and sliding into the chair opposite him, noting the serpent-headed cane lying across his lap. "Is everything alright? Is Abraxas okay?"

"He's fine, child." _For now._ Horatio cleared his throat and leaned in as if sharing a secret. "Eileen, I hate to bring this up, but my wife showed me some letters from Abraxas." The girl stiffened, her eyes like golf balls. "The thing is, I simply cannot countenance my son slinking about behind my back. To know that you agreed to this…well, surely you understand my disappointment, my sense of betrayal?"

"I—I…" she mumbled, unable to think of anything to defend her actions.

"Here is the crux of the matter: I don't know that I want my son to marry a girl I can't trust. I'm contemplating going to your parents to break off the engagement. I thought you should be the first to know."

"No!" she squeaked, rising from her chair and putting a hand over her mouth, where her racing heart threatened to jump out. "No, please! I didn't mean to do anything against you, I was only doing what Abraxas asked me to! I only passed letters from him to Mrs. Malfoy, that's all. I didn't read them, we didn't talk about them. Please, Mr. Malfoy, I'll tell him I can't do it anymore. Will that make it better?"

Horatio paused as if considering, then slowly nodded his head. "If I can depend on you to tell me when my son asks you to do something against his family, I suppose that will earn my trust back. I seriously do not wish to break the betrothal, but I will if I deem it necessary. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir," she said softly, bobbing her head.

"Good day then." He got up, inclined his head to her, and strode out, leaving Eileen gawping after him.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

**5 September 1947**

As Horatio picked his way along Knockturn Alley, dodging drunken wizards and frighteningly grotesque witches, he seethed inwardly. He'd been doing that a lot of late, for over two months, in fact. Abraxas had run off like the ungrateful whelp he was, and Horatio had thought for sure he'd come crawling back by now, begging forgiveness, begging to be allowed to be part of the family again. Not that Horatio could really disown him, seeing as he needed an heir and the brat was the best—and only—he had. Whatever the case, it rankled deeply. Knowing he'd been conspiring with Nicolette and Eileen only made matters worse. With a swipe of his serpent-headed cane he shoved aside an elderly wizard lurching down the alley with a dazed look on his face.

Up ahead, round the corner, he came to a halt, scowling at the refuse at his feet. Ahead, leaning on the building wall while picking at his teeth with a splinter of wood, stood a rangy man of about thirty years, light brown hair cut close to his scalp, his sunburned skin wrinkling across his brow. One eye was bright blue, the other covered with a black eye patch, the entire picture giving him the wary bearing of a pirate, along with the fashion sense of the worst sort—a _muggle_ pirate.

Automatically Horatio's fingers gripped the wand tip of his cane. "I believe a mutual acquaintance directed me to you. O'Connor?"

" 'S right. Malfoy?"

"Yes." Horatio wrinkled his nose in disgust, then shook his head and turned to go. "I believe I made a mistake."

"Why's 'at? 'Cause I ain't all fancy and posh? What're you expectin', some bloke in dress robes? Your kind don't go where I go, they don't find what I find." He pushed off from the building, throwing the toothpick on the cobblestones, and snorted his own brand of disgust. "My work's a hundred percent guaranteed. If I don't get my man, I don't get my money."

Intrigued, Horatio spun back around. "Fair enough. You know why I'm here. My son is missing, and I intend to—"

"I don't care why you want 'im," said O'Connor brusquely. "You pay me, I'll bring 'im back."

Horatio nodded his understanding. He'd just assumed a bounty hunter harboured more inquisitiveness about his prey, though he supposed this man might take offense at being called a bounty hunter—he didn't limit himself to criminals, after all. "As to the timetable, how long do you estimate it will take?"

The wiry man shrugged. "Africa's a big place. Give me two, three weeks."

Stunned, Horatio nodded again. He'd presumed it would take much longer…and with a legal representative, it probably would. "That is acceptable. Make it ten days and I'll double your fee."

O'Connor held out a hand, smiling. His teeth were surprisingly white and clean. "You got yourself a deal."

Squinting slightly, Horatio ventured, "As a matter of curiosity, O'Connor, how did you lose your eye?"

The other grinned. "Let's just say one o' my marks found me at the same time I found 'im." Puffing out his chest with pride, he added, "Still brought 'im in. And I don't much like usin' my name. Everybody calls me Gouge."

"Why? Because you swindle your customers?" said Malfoy dryly.

O'Connor jerked a thumb at his eye patch. "Duh. Now I got some questions for you. When I locate your boy, how do I contact you? You want me to bring 'im to you, or you come to him? And I'll need a photo…"


	9. Chapter 9

7

Father, My Father—Chapter 9

**5 September 1947**

_Dear Dad,_

_This letter is only for you, I don't want to worry Mum, okay? I'm fine, it's Abraxas I'm really writing about. The truth is I'm concerned about Mrs. Malfoy. Remember how I told you that Eileen Prince was giving her letters from her son? Well, Abraxas got a tearful letter from Eileen yesterday saying Mr. Malfoy had learned of their secret and threatened to dissolve their betrothal if she continued as liaison. Needless to say, Eileen refuses to be party to the deception any longer, but that isn't the issue. Mr. Malfoy wouldn't let something of this magnitude go, he's undoubtedly confronted his wife about it, which is why I'm writing. Is it possible for you to find an excuse to see her, to check up on her? Abraxas is beside himself with apprehension, and at the risk of sounding melodramatic, I'm afraid if he goes home now we may be burying him summarily. Thanks, Dad._

_Love, Frank_

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

**10 September 1947**

_Dear Abraxas,_

_I'm sorry I haven't written for a while, my dear son. Your father discovered that I was receiving letters from you on the sly, and as you can imagine he was not happy about it. I am well now, please don't worry about me. Dr. Cullin came by the other day for a short visit, tended my wounds, talked to me. I got the impression you or Frank was behind it. Thank you for your concern._

_I'm not forbidden to write you, and I do so freely now whilst your father is out of town, but you must start sending your correspondence home, addressed to both of us. _

" 'Like a proper son,' I can just hear him saying," Abraxas complained bitterly. "She's probably got my father standing over her, telling her what to write."

"I don't think so," Frank countered, pointing at the parchment. "Would she dare mention that you might be behind my dad visiting her?"

"No," Abraxas admitted, glancing down to continue.

_He must see you trying to extend the olive branch, as it were. That said, you'd do well to watch what you say, since he will be reading the letters. I suggest burning those I sent you before you return home, in case there may be anything of an incriminating nature…I'll let you be the judge of that._

_Eileen, as you surely know, has been bullied by Horatio into doing his bidding. She is so afraid to lose you. Was I ever so enamoured of your father? I believe I was, once…_

Abraxas pulled the letter away from the light, out of Frank's line of sight. "It looks like she's just talking about personal stuff now. Thank your dad for me, will you?"

"I will," Frank assured him. "And I wouldn't put it past him to keep making excuses to run into her, to call her into his office, and so on to keep tabs on her and make sure she's alright. Don't worry, he's pretty good about being circumspect—I'm the outspoken one."

"Yeah," said Abraxas distractedly. "Listen to this:

"_I think your father is up to something, son. I don't know what, but he seems suddenly more chipper, less brooding than he's been since you left. Maybe he's simply made a good business deal, I can't say. I'd like to think it's a good sign, but I know him too well. Oh, listen to me, making a mountain out of a molehill."_

"So your dad being cheerful is a _bad_ sign?" asked Frank seriously.

The other young man shrugged, sighing. "I wish I knew. He's not cheerful by nature, that's for sure…wonder who he's torturing with me gone." And then his thoughts immediately returned to his mother, along with massive doses of guilt.

"Abraxas, she's okay. She just told you so," Frank insisted.

"Yes, I suppose you're right," Abraxas murmured. Father wouldn't dare hurt her too much, not when he needed her for public events and such. Besides, when it came down to it, he was mostly pissed at his son…that was what Abraxas ought to be worried about, right? What was going to happen to him when he got home. It wouldn't be a happy homecoming, he'd be willing to bet on that. "I'm going to bed. I'll write her back tomorrow. Goodnight, Frank." He lay down heavily on his cot and pulled the thin blanket up over him, his eyes staring out into the dark.

**13 September 1947**

Nicolette stood at the vanity in her bathroom, studying the vast array of jewelry in the cases on either side of the expansive mirror. She wasn't in the mood for the Avery Ball, but that was irrelevant. Their son Milton had come of age, the respectable thing to do was to be there, as they had been at Malfoy Manor for Abraxas' party. Milton's party should have been months ago, and would have been except for the illness of the little Avery girl. She was well now, that was one good thing.

Nicolette picked up a heavy ruby necklace and held it to the hollow of her throat. It was the first piece of jewelry Horatio had given her after they were wed, the day after he struck her for the first time. They'd been married only six months, they'd been indulging in intimate relations constantly, and she was tired this time, not in the mood. To her horror, he'd railed at her, called her foul names she'd never even heard before, and had lashed out. Once. The bruise it left on her cheek brought abundant apologies that evening and the next day, when he'd presented her with the necklace as a peace offering and his vow never to do it again.

She sighed sadly. But it had happened again, so many times she'd long ago lost track. Horatio had behaved like the ideal husband for months after that first time, showering her with praise and small gifts…until she'd upset him over a tea date with some old friends, when he'd planned an outing for them as a couple. That had been the second time. Again he'd apologized profusely, and because she wanted desperately to believe him, she let it go. Her pride—and his threats to her person and family should she shame him by publicizing their dirty laundry—refused to allow her to let friends or family in on what was happening; now she didn't even have many of those anymore. Horatio had methodically cut them out of her life, isolating her with him except at public functions and the odd date with Marie Prince. In public he played the doting husband…it was preferable to the monster at home as the abuse escalated in intensity over time, the bouts occurring with ever more alarming frequency.

Now, all these years later, she wondered if perhaps she deserved it. Ten years into the marriage, after two miscarriages, Abraxas had been born. By then she'd been too beaten down and submissive to cross Horatio, too cowardly to stand up for the boy when he needed her. And still Abraxas had managed to grow into a fine young man who made her so proud, a powerful, talented wizard who wasn't afraid to be his own person no matter the cost to himself.

Sighing again, she set the necklace onto her vanity. She was so tired. Horatio's curse from several years ago was taking its toll, robbing her of vitality, aging her before her time. Try as she might to discover the curse in hopes of reversing it, hours upon hours of digging through the expansive collection of Dark Arts books in his library, had all proven for naught.

She observed herself closely in the mirror as she applied a glamour charm to hide the sunken eyes and bruises on her arms. Maybe if she was lucky Marie and George Prince would be there with Eileen. She could use the friendly company…and if Abraxas had sent another letter, waiting for her when she got home, it might perk her up considerably. Selecting an opal pendant, she slipped it around her neck, looked herself over once more, and plastered on an amiable smile. Time to go pretend again.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

Abraxas and Thalia strolled alongside the shore of the Indian Ocean on the coast of Somalia, both gazing out over the water as Thalia's hand slid into the wizard's larger one. He grinned shyly and clutched her little paw, reveling in the touch. This was the eighth stop the entire group had made since beginning their journey, they'd seen plains and deserts and even a nasty swamp where two of their number had acquired malaria, necessitating magical treatment to prevent its ill effects from grabbing hold. To date this was the prettiest scene to him, beautiful enough almost to match the lovely creature at his side.

"It reminds me a bit of England," he said suddenly. "The water, I mean. I'm from Wiltshire, but we often go to the coast; I'm used to a lot of water nearby."

"Me, too," she said, slipping down to sit on the sand. He followed suit. "In America I lived right near the Pacific Ocean. I miss the sound of it, the wildness of it."

Astonished, he gaped at her before managing, "You don't sound American."

"I'm not." She sighed and leaned on him, and his arm naturally draped over her shoulder to cradle her close. She loved the feel of his hard body, his strong arms, the warmth coming not only from his presence but from his heart. He made her feel…safe.

He waited for her to continue, and when she didn't he prompted, "We've been slipping around, seeing each other for six weeks now. You don't talk about yourself like most girls; I'd love for you to tell me about yourself."

"Abraxas, I don't like to talk of it much."

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to," he assured her, squeezing her shoulder and hoping there was nothing nefarious in her background that he'd come to regret later. Then suddenly, "You called me Abraxas."

"It is your name, isn't it?"

"Well, yes, but…I kind of like it when you call me Brax. No one else ever has." That made it all the more special to him.

She shifted, brushing her hair out of her face, but the breeze immediately flung it right back, stinging her cheeks. "I like it, too. I just thought, you know, since you use my proper name now, that I should…" She drifted off, then all of a sudden she blurted, "I'm from Southampton. When I was eleven and away at school, the German muggles bombed it pretty badly—that big war they had. My family were all killed."

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, holding her even tighter, to the point she squeaked a little.

"Thank you."

For a long while she said nothing more, and he couldn't bear to disturb the uneasy silence with questions. She would go on when she was ready. They sat quietly, the roar of the ocean tide and splashing of the waves on the beach the only sounds. Thalia dug her bare toes into the sand over and over.

"Where did you go to school?" she asked out of the blue.

"Me? Durmstrang. Well, for most of my schooling. My last year was at Hogwarts. What about you?" Now that she mentioned it, why hadn't he seen her at Hogwarts? She was the same age as he was, they ought to have graduated together. There was no way he'd have failed to notice her if she'd been there.

"I went to Hogwarts for five years," she said softly, looking up into his face. "Then my guardian became terribly injured. He was an American enlisted in the Royal Air Force for the war—don't look like that, he was a wizard, pureblood like us! He just couldn't stand what was happening. Anyway his wife was British, my neighbor…she died of tuberculosis three years after my family, so when Papa got hurt too badly to fly he took me to his home in America. I attended the Olympia School for Witches and Wizards on the west coast, then after graduation I enrolled in this program, and here I am. End of story."

Abraxas paused, then haltingly pressed on. "You said 'he was a wizard'. What became of your Papa?"

She swallowed a lump rising in her throat; unbidden tears formed in the corners of her eyes. "He died last summer, just before I left for this trip." Her head fell and her body began to shake with sobs.

"I'm sorry," he said , feeling like a broken record. Clasping her to his chest, he let her cry, overwhelmed himself. What could he say? Dealing with such a vast amount of emotional pain must be devastating. For several minutes she wept as though her heart would break, then the sobs came slower and softer until she lay silently in his arms.

Without thinking about what he was doing, he lowered his face to her and kissed her brow. She lifted her face to his, and he planted his lips on hers, gently at first. She crushed her lips to him with a ferocity matched only by his own amorous feelings. Soon they were snogging like the teenagers they were, not thinking of anything but each other, hands roaming through hair and down backs, though out of respect Abraxas vigilantly kept his hands away from regions they had no business exploring. All his life he'd had it pounded into him that wizards do not take advantage of witches before marriage. He'd learned the lesson well.

After a while, when the ocean had grown dark, he said quietly, "We should probably get back. They'll be wondering where we are."

"Are you afraid they might deduce that we're together?"

"No!" he replied quickly, though it was a lie. All he needed was for word to somehow get home. He required time to work on this, figure out what to do. "We just don't need the hassle, people claiming we're not pulling our weight or something."

"Alright." Thalia stood up and shook the sand off her. She smiled at him; he was so adorable. "Wouldn't want Doctor Hodgins to bawl us out."

Abraxas leaned in for another kiss, lingered, then pulled back. "You go first. I'll apparate to the kitchen area, and we can meet outside our tents to say goodnight."

"I miss you already," she said seductively, or at least he was pretty sure that's what she was going for. If she wasn't, it was still a spot on imitation. A moment later she apparated away.

"I miss you every second you're gone," he said into the empty air surrounding him, then disapparated himself.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

Hidden by a strong disillusionment charm, Gouge hunkered down in the thin line of brush separating the tents from the medical area. He swiped at a twig that kept brushing his sole good eye. It had taken him only two days to research programs of this type, then to narrow it down to two possible groups, break into their offices and steal a course outline detailing locations to be visited, and be on his way. He'd been unable to secure a list of names, but he felt fairly certain he was on the right track. He'd gone from place to place over the past six days searching for signs of the medical teams, and now he'd hit the jackpot.

Careful to make sure that no one was even remotely nearby, he drew the picture of Abraxas out of his pocket. It was truly a family portrait, with the boy sitting on the sofa beside his mother, the father standing behind them with a hand on each of their shoulders, looking genial, if a bit arrogant. A very handsome family. For some reason Gouge found it to be false. Horatio seemed like an alright bloke, but something rang hollow—not that Gouge cared. Either way, he had a job and he intended to be paid for it. All afternoon and evening he'd been scanning the faces of the young men strolling by, rapidly discounting each one in turn until, hours after he'd planted himself in this spot, a very blond young man walked into view. Gouge mentally compared his face with that in the picture, and a broad smile broke out. This was it!

Very cautiously he followed Abraxas across the field to a tent, where the young man entered and didn't come back out. Night fell and still he didn't emerge…either it was his tent, or he was having a sleepover with one of those pretty girls frolicking about. Gouge snickered softly. Slowly, carefully he backed away from the encampment until he was far enough away to disapparate without being noticed.


	10. The Reckoning

8

Father, My Father—Chapter 10 The Reckoning

**14 September 1947**

A full day had passed since Gouge had located his prey; it felt strange, letting it go that way instead of hexing the boy on the spot and dragging him back for payment. But the Malfoy gent wanted it this way, and who was he to argue? He'd found Abraxas in less than ten days, he was getting double his fee, and if the elder Malfoy insisted it be this way, he'd comply. Maybe even get a reference out of it—and these high class men so often needed a wizard of his own caliber for their sordid affairs. He'd be rolling in galleons if he played his cards right.

With dusk on the horizon, Gouge and Horatio—both under disillusionment charms—apparated outside the encampment of the healers. The wizards stood very still, acclimating themselves, pushing down the nausea from apparating so far, listening to the bustle of the people in the camp. Most of the group seemed to be gravitating toward the fire, many of them sitting on a circle of rocks around it, talking and eating.

Gouge pointed over to the right as he said quietly, " 'S the one over there."

"I can't see you, O'Connor," Horatio drawled in a disgusted tone.

"The tent furthest to the right of that tall bush," Gouge answered, then added dryly, "And call me Gouge."

"I prefer not to, thank you." Horatio started walking, the only evidence of it the tracks he left behind on the sandy topsoil.

O'Connor followed right behind, reaching out to grab the other man's cloak. "What about my money?"

Horatio turned to him and rolled his eyes, his face twisted in a scowl that he only later realized the man couldn't see, and so it was wasted on him. "When I ascertain that my son is indeed here, and that you have correctly designated his tent, I shall pay you."

"Fine." Gouge stalked ahead and stopped to listen at the back of the tent for a long moment. When he registered no sounds, he cast a silent _hominem revelio_, which showed no person within. Slicing down the canvas with a sharp knife he'd pulled from his belt, he entered the tent and stood there looking at the two bunks, one with a trunk at its foot.

Seconds later Horatio joined him, ducking his head to enter through the slit in back. He walked slowly round the area, inspecting everything in the dim light of the practically Spartan tent without touching any of it. When his eyes fell upon the suitcase half-stuffed under the cot, an animated chuckle escaped him. O'Connor had been right, this was his son's tent! His wife had given Abraxas that luggage set two years ago when they went skiing in the Alps.

To be absolutely sure, and out of sheer curiosity to see what had been written, he whispered, "_Accio_ letters from Nicolette." Nothing happened. He crinkled his brow, frowning. That didn't make sense. He knew for a fact his wife had been writing to the boy! "_Accio_ Abraxas' suitcase."

The expensive leather case wiggled itself from under the cot and sailed into his hand. He rifled through it briefly, recognizing the robes inside. There was a photo of Nicolette with Abraxas when he'd been only ten or eleven, mother and son sitting on horses, smiling and waving at the camera. Alright, there was no mistake, this belonged to his son; he'd determine the details later. He tossed the case onto the nearest cot. First things first.

Removing the disillusionment charm, he turned to find O'Connor, who'd removed his own charm when he saw Horatio do so. He took a fat sack of galleons the size of both his fists from the pocket of his travel cloak and held it out. "You'll find one hundred galleons inside, as we discussed, along with the key to the vault at Gringotts where the bulk of the payment is stored—doubled as per the agreement for finding him within ten days. Thank you for your service."

"You're very welcome," answered Gouge, itching to count the money but sensing that to do so in front of his present employer might result in loss of referrals. He contented himself with weighing the bag in his hand; it seemed about right. "If you need me again, you know 'ow to find me. Give my name to your friends."

"Goodbye," said Horatio noncommittally.

Gouge shrugged and exited backward through the rip. A moment later a faint cracking sound signaled his departure. Horatio cast a silencing charm over the tent in anticipation of his son's arrival; surprises of this nature tended to get loud, even unruly.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

Thalia glanced across the fire at Abraxas, seated between Frank and one of the girls from another group. She appeared to be babbling on to him, yet he seemed more interested in eating his seared chunk of antelope than in speaking to her…at least that was good. Thalia daintily nibbled at her own hunk of flesh; she wasn't one for eating a lot of meat, she preferred fruits and vegetables to be more prominent. Still, allowances had to be made in situations like this, where bringing in fresh food wasn't always possible, and besides the villagers had made a gift of this antelope. If they didn't eat it, the people would be offended.

At last she finished all she could, threw the bone into the fire, and wiped her fingers on a cloth napkin before _scourgifying_ them. She really detested the slippery, icky feeling of fat on her hands. Making a feeble excuse to the young man beside her, who'd been trying unsuccessfully to chat her up, she stood up and walked into the darkness outside the light of the fire.

A few minutes later, Abraxas got up with a mumbled explanation of needing some exercise. The young woman next to him offered to keep him company, which he hastily declined, then veered in the direction of the latrines to make sure she didn't follow. As he hastened away, he heard Frank telling a mate about the fiancée he'd left behind, and how he missed her. It made Abraxas' guts shrivel with guilt and his pace quicken.

He met up with Thalia behind a clump of trees a good distance outside the camp, where they were not permitted to be in case of wild animal attack. Taking her hand in his, he pulled her close into a hug and kissed her hard on the lips. Sensing something amiss, he withdrew slightly. "What's wrong?"

Looking at the ground, she said softly, "Are you ashamed of me?"

"What? No, of course not!"

"Then why do we have to sneak around, pretending we aren't together?" she demanded, still in a soft voice. It astonished him how she managed to be both authoritative and mild at the same time. It reminded him suddenly of a kitten with its claws out, and he snickered. "What is so funny?" she said, her voice suddenly sounding more like a lioness' purr.

"I'm sorry, you made me think of a kitten…I'm sorry." He shook his head and looked into her eyes which were fixed on him now. "Thalia, I couldn't be ashamed of you if I tried. You're wonderful and sweet and kind and good—"

"And you didn't answer my question."

"I just don't think we should advertise our relationship," he responded, ducking his head, unable to meet her steady gaze. "They might think we aren't doing our work, that we're too focused on each other. I'm afraid they might put us into different groups where we'd hardly have any time to spend with one another. I love spending time with you, and I couldn't bear it if they separated us."

It was all true, he did fear those things…he could hardly mention the main reason, of course, that if word got back home about Abraxas with another woman, all hell would break loose. Not that it was likely, thus far no one had so much as mentioned his betrothal, so it wasn't like they kept track of the Malfoy events. And Frank…Abraxas didn't quite know what to think there. He understood that Abraxas had been pressured into an arranged marriage that wouldn't even take place for another four years or so. He might encourage the behaviour or not, hard to say, and even if he was disgusted with his friend for pursuing love outside of Eileen, he wouldn't tell on him.

Last but assuredly not least, he and Thalia had been together all of six weeks, and although he knew beyond a doubt that he adored and loved her, that he'd be devoted to her for the rest of his life, he couldn't be so confident about her sentiments. She wasn't exactly wearing her heart on her sleeve if she felt anything beyond fondness for him, and it was really too early to be proclaiming his love and asking her to do the same. He needed time to figure out what to do, to find out if Thalia loved him. If so, his way was clear; if not, he'd squeeze all the true love he felt for her into this brief time together, then go home and marry Eileen and gracefully die inside.

"I don't want that, either," she said slowly, so quietly he barely heard her. She pressed against him, wrapping her arms round his waist, and he embraced her in return. "I like being with you as well."

"For now, let's leave it like this," he said into her ear. "Later on, when we've got the lay of the land, when we're sure…well, we can see how it looks then. Maybe I'm all wrong. Maybe everything will be fine."

"I hope so," she said, and he thought he detected a hint of longing. It made him smile.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

Abraxas had said goodnight to Thalia, kissing her in private behind the medical booths when he was sure no one was nearby, and walking as mere friends to their quarters. He watched her go into her tent and almost jumped out of his boots when Frank came up behind him.

"Geez, Frank, you walk like a cat," he complained.

"What are you looking at?" answered Frank, staring over his shoulder at nothing that he could see.

"I…I thought I saw an animal out there," Abraxas lied, turning his head away. He wasn't a good liar and he hated doing it. "I guess I was wrong." He shot a _lumos_ into his tent, pulled aside the flap, and went in, then froze in place.

Frank, who was coming in behind, ran into him. "What'd you stop—" And then he saw why.

Horatio was seated, half reclining, on Abraxas' cot, a sardonic smile on his lips. He sat up, his cold blue eyes gazing at Abraxas as he said, "Hello, son. Did you miss me?"

With a tiny exhalation of air that sounded vaguely like a whimper, Abraxas' legs literally buckled, and he fell to his knees at the horrendous, unwelcome shock to his system. Mouth agape, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps, he couldn't answer to save his life. Frank shoved his way in front of his mate, eyes blazing.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Malfoy?"

"That's hardly the way I was taught to greet my elders," remarked Horatio, swinging his boots off the cot and rising to his feet. "I'd have thought your parents had better breeding."

"I'd have thought you could leave Abraxas alone for once in his life," shot back Frank.

Horatio merely gave a tiny snort of derision. "If it please your majesty, I'd like to speak to my son alone."

Frank looked warily at Abraxas, who had overcome the initial bombshell and was getting shakily to his feet, his breathing returning to a semblance of normal. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea."

"I didn't ask for your opinion, did I?"

"Frank, please," said Abraxas, moving to stand beside him. Notwithstanding his present horrified, dazed condition, he needed to get this over with; his father would not leave without a fight, and honestly he preferred to avoid the humiliation of being pounded in front of his tent mate. "You can stay right outside, but I have to talk to him."

"If you're sure," Frank replied softly. Before he left, he cast an anti-apparition charm on the tent and surrounding area to make certain Horatio couldn't simply grab his son and disapparate. It was a spell his father had taught him, one he'd made up himself—and one Horatio Malfoy didn't know the counter to.

When the tent flap closed behind him, Horatio held up the letters he'd taken from Nicolette and threw them into Abraxas' chest. They fell to the ground, though Abraxas knew what they were on sight. His heart, which was already working overtime, skipped a beat and sped up.

Horatio waited for several seconds to let the impact sink in. "So now you not only disobey me and run away from home like an insolent whelp, you try to turn your mother against me, plotting together. She told me everything, how you tried to get her to leave me. Enlisting your betrothed against me as well. I won't have it, son. I gave you the opportunity to come home, and you didn't take it."

"As if I believe you wouldn't have thrashed me half to death?" Abraxas managed in a voice that sounded surprisingly strong despite how he felt.

"Of course I'd have thrashed you, you fool!" Horatio shouted, and to see his son shrink back gave him a spot of intense satisfaction. He didn't worry that Frank or anyone else could hear him, for his silencing charms had been powerfully perfected over the years. They'd hold up for hours if necessary. "But now you've made it worse for yourself. Everyone believes I allowed you to go on this trip, they don't expect you back till July. That's fine, I'll let you stay. However, I will not let this insubordination pass, therefore you have two options: either you submit to your correction now, or I'll take it out on your mother when I return, and then on you when you finally do drag your arse home. You've thought all along that I would—well, I will. Try me." The last was evidently a challenge, one he felt sure the younger Malfoy had no intention of accepting.

Long, tense pause. The defeat in the youth's tone was all too apparent. "If I let you punish me now, will you beat me again when I get home? Or will you perhaps harm Mother? I want your word that this will be the end of it."

"If I administer your punishment now, this will be the end of it. I will not add additional penalty later, nor will I harm your mother in your stead. On my word," Horatio assured him. "You will be free to continue here, get your degree, then to get that job you spoke of at the Ministry."

There was another long pause while Abraxas considered the situation. Basically his father couldn't bear not having control, couldn't bear that his son rebelled against him, and he'd remedy that state of affairs if it was the last thing he did. Even so, while his father may be cruel and vindictive, if he gave his word he kept it—for good or evil. If Abraxas let him leave without exacting his revenge, Mother would suffer terribly—and so would he when he finally did get home; if Abraxas submitted, he'd suffer now, but the waiting would be over, and Father would leave Mother alone. It sucked whichever way he looked at it, but he'd much rather just get it over with.

In a low voice he muttered, "Why do you have to do this?"

His father smiled condescendingly. "You're my son, you are to obey me. One way or another, you'll learn that."

"I learnt it long ago, the hard way."

Hard, guttural laugh. "Were that the case, I wouldn't be here now. Make your decision."

Another long, awkward, intense moment. Staring at the ground, Abraxas nodded once. "Go ahead, hit me. It's what you love to do."

Horatio fairly snorted. The boy's audacity knew no bounds. "Turn around." He removed from his trouser pocket a thumbnail sized, wafer-thin disk and cupped it in his palm where his son didn't see it.

Abraxas spun round without expression, wordlessly ripping off his shirt and throwing it onto the cot, preparing himself for the first blow of the sure-to-be acutely vicious whipping or caning. Instead, he felt the sting of the disk being pressed into his skin between his shoulder blades, and reached back instinctively, trying to claw it out and unable to reach it. "What is this?"

"Your punishment." The elder man waited for the younger to turn to him, and he smiled in a bland victorious manner as he spoke, "As a rule, infractions must be dealt with immediately, lest the offender become emboldened to more dastardly deeds. It's been two and a half months since your rebellion, my son; we've gone beyond simple beatings. I've had a lot of time to think of an appropriate chastisement. Once a week this device will emit severe, debilitating pain for approximately ten minutes—until I remove it, that is. And I won't be doing that until you come home and resume your place as my dutiful heir. Be advised that if anyone else attempts to remove it, the distress will be exponentially increased." Horatio sneered at the look of horror on Abraxas' face. "What? You thought I'd come to beat you, and be done with it? You have angered me very badly, Abraxas. Suffer the due consequences. Brace yourself, the first wave is about to start."

Sure enough, ribbons of agony shot through the young man's back, up every nerve fiber, into his arms, legs, abdomen, everywhere, dropping him to his knees, doubled over, his would-be screams overtaken by retching and sobbing. He lay on the floor of the tent gasping for breath between bouts of vomiting, his limbs twitching and flailing of their own accord. After ten minutes, the pain left as quickly as it had come. Panting, Abraxas struggled to his knees, then his feet. He didn't bother to wipe the tears from his cheeks or the sick from his chin.

"You evil, sadistic bastard," he croaked.

"Now, now, son," said Horatio, smirking. "Let's not make your father even more cross, shall we? Whenever you take it into your head to return home, I shall straight away remove the disk. Until then, have fun." He walked out of the tent, right past Frank, and disapparated.


	11. Chapter 11

8

Father, My Father—Chapter 11

**Mid-November 1947**

Abraxas lay on the floor of his tent in a puddle of his own vomit, exhausted and sickened from the agony that had finally passed, yet unable to get up. As usual the horrific pain came for ten minutes; however, its aftereffects lasted longer each time, and at the moment his numbed limbs were incapable of feeling any sensation, let alone supporting his weight.

Frank had wisely chosen not to be present—both because he couldn't bear to watch his friend suffer, and because Abraxas had asked him not to stay during these times. He'd begged Abraxas to go to their superiors in the camp, to find help, and he'd stubbornly refused. Now Malfoy was rethinking that position. If he had to go through this torture again, he wasn't entirely sure he could do it. It had been two months; even at only once a week, the anticipation coupled with the actual event was driving him mad. His father may get his wish after all, forcing his son home if only to have the damnable disk removed.

"Brax? Are you in there?"

_Holy God, not now! _Glancing at the wand still clutched in his white-knuckled fist, he removed the silencing charm from the tent and growled, "Don't come in!"

Smiling on the other side of the tent flap, Thalia said teasingly, "Why, are you naked?" If so, she wouldn't really mind seeing it.

"No." He hadn't expected that, and had nothing else to say.

She frowned, twisting her mouth slightly. "You aren't masturbating, are you?" As if he'd admit it?

"No…" he repeated, in a voice that sounded so weak and in pain that she couldn't stop herself.

She barged into the tent and stopped cold, gasping, her hand to her mouth. "Oh, God! Are you okay? I'm going to get help—"

"No!" he barked, much stronger, though it cost him to do so. "I don't need help. I just need a few minutes more."

"For what? Brax, what happened?" She approached slowly, wrinkling her nose at the sick on the floor. A wave of her wand vanished it, along with the string dripping from his chin and cheek. "What's going on?"

"I didn't want to tell you…it's humiliating," he said, averting his eyes for lack of being able to turn his head. "And it's a long story."

"You said you've got a few minutes, so tell me." Thalia planted herself on his cot, staring at him, waiting. "If you won't, I'm marching out that door and bringing in one of the doctors. I don't care if you get angry with me, I'm worried about you." The set of her face told him she wasn't joking, nor would she be swayed by pleading.

Given the choices available, honesty seemed like the best policy. While he lay there, he recounted briefly the story of his childhood so that Thalia might appreciate the lengths to which Horatio Malfoy would go for vengeance, and when he told her about the latest visit, the threats against his mother, and the implantation of the device in his back, her lips pressed so tightly together they looked poised to disappear entirely.

"And that's why I'm lying here now," he said softly.

"I can't believe this," she said finally, shaking her head and wiping tears from her eyes. "How can any so-called father treat his son this way?"  
"I gave up asking that years ago," Abraxas replied. He wiggled his fingers, then his toes, then gingerly drew his legs up toward his chest to roll onto his knees. Ever so gradually he eased himself to his feet, feeling pleased with himself till he looked at the horror on Thalia's face. She wasn't used to this, to the beatings or the torture, to the pride at overcoming them. "I'm sorry you had to see this."

"You need help, Brax. I don't know anything about those disks, but surely someone here does. Let me take you to one of them."

"No." Then he recalled his own weakness, his wondering if he could endure another bout of this torment. Maybe it was time to try a healer or doctor rather than give up and go home, leaving behind the woman of his dreams. "I'll go by myself."

"How do I know you will?" she challenged. "You could be placating me with no intent of doing as you say—which incidentally would piss me off royally."

He grinned. That was his Thalia! "I'm going right now—you can watch me if you want."

Wholly aware of her eyes on his back, Abraxas exited the tent, stumbled across the rocky terrain of the camp to Dr. Hodgins' tent, and tapped at the canvas. "Dr. Hodgins?"

The old woman came to the door and peered out, her long white hair down around her face as if she'd been getting ready for bed. He'd never seen it down, and simply stared for a moment as she said, "Yes, Abraxas?"

"If you have a minute, may I speak to you in private?"

The doctor invited him in and closed the flap. "Is there a problem?"

He automatically hesitated. He wasn't permitted to tell anyone about the abuse, it simply wasn't done, it would make things worse…but could it really get much worse? He'd told Thalia and the world hadn't exploded. Nodding at the same time he spoke, he said, "No, not exactly. I mean, yes. I came to you because I believe of all the doctors here, you've got the most experience."

"Are you calling me old?" He caught a slight twinkle in her eye, so faint he wasn't quite sure he'd seen it.

"No, ma'am!" he yelped, eyes wide, head shaking vigorously. "It's just that I…I hope you might be able to help me." Quaking slightly from the earlier pain as well as from dread, he pulled his shirt off over his head.

She responded dryly with, "Mr. Malfoy, if you're trying to seduce me, do remember that I'm substantially older than you."

He blushed and shook his head again. The trembling in his limbs wasn't lost on her, and her amusement took on a curious mien. He turned around to display the disk situated between his shoulder blades, dug into the spine. "Do you know what this is?"

"Hmm." She came a tad closer and stroked a finger across it. "Of course. It's a pain-relieving disk. Has it stopped operating?" That would explain the trembling.

"No, ma'am, it works fine. That's the problem," he choked out over his dry throat. "It doesn't relieve suffering, it causes it."

"I'm sorry? That's not its function."

"Yes, it is," Abraxas said in a bare whisper. "It's apparently been modified for the task."

Dr. Hodgins took him by the shoulder and spun him to face her, her creased features livid. "Are you telling me someone placed this on you to _induce_ torment?"

Unable to look at her, he merely nodded.

"Who? If someone here dared such a thing, even as a joke, I will—"

"Dr. Hodgins, please!" he interrupted, looking like he wanted to cry. Speaking quickly, afraid he may lose his nerve is he didn't spit it out immediately, he blurted, "It's no one here. My father forbid me to come on this expedition, and when I disobeyed him he tracked me down and made a special visit in September to do this. He said if anyone except him tries to remove it, the pain will be…well, I get the impression it might kill me, or send me into a coma." At the fury shining in her face, he hurriedly added, "I implore you not to tell anyone. I don't want my family name dragged through the mud, and I won't press charges against my father. I just want it to stop!"

Dr. Hodgins laid a gentle, calming hand on his shoulder. Allowing him to become hysterical wasn't going to achieve anything, and she'd seen enough already, knew enough about the Malfoy pride of family name that he wasn't going to bend where that was concerned. "Is it constant?"

"No. Once a week, like clockwork, lasts for ten minutes. It's excruciating, debilitating agony, and every time it seems to take longer to get over it." His chin nearly rested on his chest, his shame evident.

"That's a start," she said brightly, spinning him away under the pretense of examining the disk. He didn't need to feel any more pressure or embarrassment. "It has evidently tapped into the spinal column, utilizing the nervous system. We know when the spell is coming; all we need to do is figure out a way to negate its effect."

"Do you think we can?" he asked, hope peeking from behind despair.

"As you pointed out, I am the eldest—most experienced—here," she answered, allowing a tiny smirk. "Neurology is one of my areas of expertise, and although you won't read about it in my biography, I'm no stranger to Dark Magic. I _will_ sort this out, hopefully by next week." She patted him gently on the back. "Go and rest. I have work to do."

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

"So you think she can get rid of it?" Thalia asked, excited at the prospect.

Abraxas shrugged. Now that he'd come back to his tent where it all began, away from Dr. Hodgins, his optimism had begun to fade again. She'd make her best attempt, but what if she couldn't do anything to help? Could he endure another seven and a half months of this, or would he be compelled to return home? He mumbled, "I don't know. I hope so…but hope hasn't really been on my side all my life, you know?" he tried to grin, but it came off as a grimace.

Thalia threw her arms around him and pulled him in tight to her, nuzzling her face into his neck. "If she can't, we'll find one who can. We'll leave, go back to Britain, and search for the best in the world. I don't care if it takes years to pay for it, I will!"

"Oh, Thalia," he murmured, tears forming in his eyes at her kindness. He squeezed her so hard she squeaked. "You'd do that for me, leave your training for me?"

"Of course I would," she replied immediately.

He squeezed her again, bending down to rub his lips across her hair. "If I go back to Britain, I may as well just go home and have Father remove it. And you wouldn't need to worry about payment. I thought you already knew that I'm filthy rich."

Her body went rigid and she pulled back slightly to look dubiously at him. "Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not. Haven't you ever heard of the Malfoys?" It seemed inconceivable that she hadn't.

"I don't know, maybe. The name sounds familiar, but then I've known you for over four months, so naturally it sounds familiar. I haven't been back to England since I was fifteen, and I don't follow society news," she said, sighing and relaxing into him again. "But I don't care. I only want to help you."

"I truly appreciate your concern, Thalia. You're the sweetest witch I've ever known." Smiling, he kissed her hard on the lips and deliberately stepped away. Frank could be back at any time, it wasn't wise to be in a compromising position. "I should get to bed, it—the disk, the pain—it makes me really tired."

"I understand. And you're the sweetest wizard I've ever known," she shot back, grinning. She pressed his hand between both of hers and headed for the tent flap. "Goodnight, Brax."

"Goodnight, darling—Thalia, I mean Thalia," he said, blushing.

"Darling is nice, too," she cooed, chuckling. Ducking her head, she exited the tent.

Abraxas sat down on his cot, then lay down and pulled the blanket up over him. He honestly was exhausted, and now that he had some sort of hope for relief, along with Thalia to dream about, he felt ready for sleep. He began to drift off within minutes, only to be awakened by the sound of an owl hooting at his head.

Twisting his neck, he grumbled, "How did you get in here?"

He grudgingly sat up, shot a _lumos_ to lighten the tent, unwrapped the parchment from the owl's leg, and gave the owl a stale cracker sitting by the bed. Then he poured some water into a shallow dish and set it on the floor for the bird while he read:

_Dear Abraxas,_

_How are you? How are things in Africa? I'm fine. I haven't heard from you in several weeks. I know you're busy, but I'm afraid you're not writing because you're angry with me. I'm so sorry, but your dad threatened to break our betrothal, and I couldn't let that happen. Please write to me; every day I wait for an owl that never comes._

_I've seen your mum and dad a few times since then. They were at Milton Avery's coming of age party, and the three of us had tea last week at Hogsmeade. They came all the way to see me! They miss you, and so do I._

Abraxas snorted softly. Mother missed him, surely, but not Father. He only wanted his son home to show everyone—especially Abraxas—that his place was under his sire's thumb. "Well good luck on that front, old man, I'd rather die than go home early!" he snarled.

_The ice on your pond is hardening up nicely. Soon it will be good for skating, but you won't be here to do it. I look forward to the time you can teach me to skate as you said you would._

_Everything's fine at school. Professor Slughorn invited me to join the Slug Club as he promised last year. He asks after you occasionally._

"Of course he does, I'm wealthy and well connected," Abraxas said to no one. On the flip side, the connections ran both ways—Slughorn was in the position to introduce him to people of influence as well.

_He said your adventure sounds fascinating, and he'd like to discuss it when you get home. When are you coming home? Your mum said at the end of June, but your dad laughed and said he believes it will be much sooner. Why does he think that? Don't you like it there?_

_I have to go to class now. I hope you write soon and that you're alright._

_Your betrothed, Eileen_

Abraxas threw the letter onto the dirt floor and incinerated it with an _incendio_. It was best not to have any letters about, no matter what they said. Besides, he didn't need to read it again in order to respond, it was the same sort of thing Eileen usually wrote about. Not that he blamed her, of course, she was a child writing childish things.

"What'cha got there?" asked Frank, sticking his head into the tent in time to see the letter go up in flames. He relaxed visibly to see his friend alive and well, not in any obvious pain or distress.

"Letter from Eileen," Abraxas answered shortly. "I suppose I ought to write to her soon."

"You haven't been writing?" Frank exclaimed in surprise. He wrote to his fiancée daily, though to be fair he was deeply in love with her. Letting the tent flap fall, he closed it tight against wandering animals.

His friend shrugged. It wasn't like he had any interest in the girl. "You'll be glad to know I went to Dr. Hodgins earlier. She may be able to find a way to negate the effects of the disk."

"That's great news! What caused your change of heart?"

To tell or not to tell? It could have been innocent enough for Thalia to come to the tent of her friend to talk, right? If Frank had seen her come or go, he might wonder. "Thalia came by and found me on the floor. She threatened to bring in a doctor if I didn't do it myself."

Frank burst out laughing. "I should have done that myself months ago. Well, I sincerely hope Dr. Hodgins is successful."

"Not as much as I hope it," Abraxas replied, lying down again. "Sorry, but I need to sleep. We can talk in the morning." A few minutes later, he was snoring softly.

Frank dimmed the light and sat on his own cot. The owl, which had finished its water and crackers, had apparently decided it liked the pillow on his bed. He shooed it off, and it complied with a harsh hooting before settling on the blanket set on the trunk at the foot of his bed. He wasn't very tired, but they had to get up early and Abraxas wasn't exactly good company at the moment anyway. He could go look for someone else to talk to, yet most had retired to their tents already. Slowly he lay down, staring at the darkness of the top of the tent. Taking out his wand, he charmed it to look like the night sky, complete with thousands of tiny stars. Maybe, underneath the real sky, his beloved was looking up and thinking of him, too. He smiled at the thought.


	12. Chapter 12

11

Father, My Father—Chapter 12

**Late November 1947**

Dr. Hodgins rubbed her eyes as she pushed back from her desk, then stretched her arms over her head. She'd sent for her stash of Dark Arts books, which had arrived yesterday by several owls, and she'd been spending all her time (when not actually practicing medicine) here in her tent searching for some clue as to the curse put on the disk lodged in the poor Malfoy lad's back. So far no luck, though she'd barely scratched the surface of her volumes. The blasted device was set to go off tomorrow again, and barring a miracle she wouldn't be prepared with the remedy by then. It was time to try another tactic, a short-term solution while she looked for the definitive cure.

"Dorshea?" a voice from outside the tent murmured.

"Yes?"

Healer Spencer stuck his head through the tent flap. "I wanted to make sure you're alright. You've been spending an inordinate amount of time alone in here."

"I'm researching a new project," she replied in a crisp, businesslike manner.

"Oh? How interesting. Concerning what, if I may ask?"

The witch hesitated. Ordinarily she worked alone on her projects, mainly to make sure things were done properly and that no one stole credit for her hard work. In this case, time was of the essence, and no credit was to be claimed. "What do you know about pain-relieving disks?"

"Everything," he said, smiling smugly. He entered to stand in the cramped quarters. Every inch of table, floor, and cot space was taken up with books, save a narrow passage for walking. "What do you want to know?"

She rolled her eyes. He did hold a high opinion of himself, though he was a genial wizard…and he was very gifted at his work, so it couldn't hurt to gain his input. "Theoretically, if a disk were tampered with to reverse its basic function, how could you re-reverse it to make it operate properly—or better yet, stop functioning at all?"

His brow furrowed. "What exactly are you saying, Dorshea? That the disk has been tampered with to make it _cause_ pain? That would be reversing its function, but highly unethical."

"Precisely. And we aren't dealing with ethics."

"And you want to re-reverse it?"

"Why are you repeating everything I say, Kayne? I thought I was pretty clear," she snapped. Honestly, this was getting her nowhere.

"I'm only trying to ascertain the parameters, dear Doctor. Rather than try reversing anything, why not simply remove the disk and have done with it?" He moved to her cot, swept the books aside, and sat down. "Or are we talking about a real patient here?" The shrewd look he cast her made her squirm. How did he do that?

"We are. The name will remain confidential, as will any details not absolutely pertinent to this discussion." She took a deep breath. There was no need to remind him of the doctor/patient confidentiality implied here, he was a strict professional. "The disk initiates extreme agony rather than relief through the spinal column. If removed, it may bring about very severe complications."

"That's not right," he responded, very sure of himself. "A disk is made to be detached at any time, and should cause no discomfort whatsoever. If your patient forbids it, the logical assumption is that it's been cursed—and unless we know the countercurse, it may be lethal to remove it." His own eyes grew wide. What had started as a mental exercise had suddenly become very real for him.

"You see my dilemma," she said softly. "I must find a way to prevent the pain, and also discover the countercurse in order to eliminate the threat entirely."

"Curses aren't my forte," he admitted slowly, rubbing the knuckles of one hand with the other. "However, I think I know a way to short-circuit the pain. It's a stopgap measure that won't allow removal of the disk, but it will allow you to divert the pain to another site of your choosing."

Dr. Hodgins gaped at him for only a second before composing herself. "How, pray tell, do you know this?"

Abashed, he ducked his head. "When I was younger, my friends and I used to…experiment. We'd use the disks for…uh…pleasure purposes. No, not that! Get your mind out of the gutter! They're not easy to come by outside of the medical profession—and they cost a great deal to obtain—so once we'd acquired one we took turns wearing it while the others sent the signals to the pleasure centers of their brains by diverting the stream. You might say we used them as muggles use drugs." By now his face was flushed and he blurted, "I told you I knew all about them."

"I'm not judging you, I'm merely surprised," she answered tartly. "So it is possible to intercept the pain signals when they begin and send them to, say, a rock?"

"I think that's a fair assessment."

"And it would need to be done every time the pain is due to begin?"

"Yes. Unless you can break the curse and remove it, that is," he said.

"Will you show me how to do it?" she asked.

"I'd need a—okay, you have one handy." He took the tiny disk from her palm and withdrew his wand from his pocket. "Here goes. I'll attach it to myself and send the pleasure signals to you first so you know it's working." He lifted his shirt sleeve and pressed the disk into the flesh of his arm.

Dr. Hodgins paused briefly, then nodded. She didn't like the idea of using enhancements for pleasure…like drugs. She liked even less the notion of Abraxas being tortured again by that damned device. "Do it."

Spencer tapped the device with his wand and said clearly, "_Conveio signalis currens_." He then pointed his wand at Dr. Hodgins' left eye, and the sudden blast of ecstasy toppled her off her chair, breaking the connection.

She sat there, stunned, for several seconds, experiencing a strange sensation of being boneless and weightless, of flying without aid of a broom. At last she got up, shaking her head and panting slightly. "That was…incredible," she said, embarrassed to have enjoyed it so much. "Do you feel it?"

"No. The one wearing the disk doesn't feel any of it," he said, almost ruefully. His wand was still pointed into midair. "It's still going on if you want another shot."

"No, thank you," she retorted, blushing at the smirk on his face. "So if this were the pain signal, I'd merely direct it to an inanimate object until the current was finished?"

"Yes." He hesitated, then added, "Would you like me to do it?"

Dorshea shook her head, tight lipped. She already felt as if she'd told too much. "The patient would prefer to remain anonymous. Give me the disk, and we'll reverse positions so I get practice in performing the spell." With any luck, it would work this easily on Abraxas tomorrow. Then all she'd have to worry about would be performing the spell every week until she found a way to remove the heinous object from the poor boy once and for all.

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**21 December 1947**

Sunday dinner went very pleasantly at Prince Manor, with special guests Nicolette and Horatio Malfoy. The Princes had extended the obligatory invitation to Abraxas, knowing he couldn't attend, but Eileen had insisted. He was, after all, to be her husband and had to know he was welcome. After the meal, they retired to the sitting room for sherry and conversation, with the men smoking cigars and discussing politics while the women sat on the other side of the room.

Nicolette, reached into her handbag to bring out a beautifully wrapped box that she handed to Eileen. "Here, dear. It's from Abraxas."

Eileen's eyes grew wide and she smiled, biting her bottom lip in anticipation. "May I open it now? Or should I wait till Christmas?"

"Open it now," said Nicolette. She'd like to see Eileen's true reaction rather than the practiced one she'd undoubtedly offer later on when describing her 'joy'. Abraxas had asked her to go shopping for a present for Eileen, and she'd done her level best to convince him to cave to tradition, but he simply would not. She'd warned her son that a gift like this wasn't suitable, but he'd been adamant that he didn't want to give Eileen more jewelry, so here they were. Holding her breath, she watched the scene unfolding.

Eileen delicately pulled open the paper to reveal a mahogany box the size of a small jewelry chest. She slid the top off and let out a hoot of sheer elation. "Gobstones! I knew he'd get me something perfect, I knew it!"

Relieved beyond measure, Nicolette let out the breath in a gush of, "Oh, I'm so happy you like it!"

Marie Prince leaned forward for a better look. It seemed…well, chintzy on the part of the young man, and yet Eileen certainly was taken with the gift. Perhaps he'd been listening to her when she went on and on about her silly hobby. "Eileen is on the Gobstones Team at school, isn't that right, dear?"

"Yes, Mum," she replied, rubbing her finger over the smooth stones in the box. "Next year I think I'll be the captain, once Bulstrode graduates. I'm better than the rest of the students," she said, smiling. "May I be excused? I want to owl Abraxas and thank him."

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"You seemed to have a good time tonight," Horatio observed as he and Nicolette swept out of the floo into their own sitting room. In fact, she was half-supported by him, as she'd imbibed more freely than she was accustomed to.

"I did," she confirmed, face flushed from too many shots of sherry, a goofy smile pasted on. "Abraxas made me buy gobstones for Eileen, of all things, and she loved them! I was so worried Marie would be offended."

"Gobstones?" Horatio repeated, looking bemused. Hardly the gift one gives one's betrothed, but then Abraxas never was one to take advice, was he? At least the girl had been happy with it, and that was what counted. He glanced at his wife, who was particularly fetching tonight. She'd always been comely to him, even when he was enraged, but now with her guard down and her mind freed, she seemed younger, happier. For some reason it made him want to be kinder to her. Maybe he ought to get her tipsy more often. "Let me help you to bed, Nicolette."

"Alright."

She leaned on him, giggling and swaying periodically, as they ascended the stairs; he escorted her to her room, and when he had sat her on the edge of her bed he turned to go, then paused. He could take her any time he wished, she didn't fight him, but he'd really like it to be the way it used to be so long ago, when she enjoyed the touch of him, when she'd ask him to make love to her. It was more satisfying that way. As much as he loved controlling her pain, he loved even more controlling her pleasure.

"Nicolette…" This was hard. He was used to demanding, not coaxing with his family. "Are you in the mood?"

"Mood for what, dear?"

He'd forgotten how she used to refer to him with endearing terms. He bent down and kissed her, not forcefully. To his delight, she kissed him back with surprising ardor, and a moment later he was sitting on the bed beside her. If all went well, and it seemed it would, he'd soon be in the bed with her, giving her the gratification she'd beg for.

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**25 December 1947**

Christmas Day, the first day off in—well, since they'd come to Africa. It was both a surprise and a treat. The population of the camp meandered about, unsure of how to spend their windfall of time, unburdened by chores or patients, yet at the same time giddy for action. Some of the young people had set up a game of horseshoes at the far end of the camp, some conjured brooms to play a pick-up game of Quidditch, others were in the kitchen vying for space and ingredients to make favourites from home, others lolled about in their tents napping or writing letters, homesick.

Abraxas and Thalia spent their day for the most part in camp to avoid detection of their relationship; he even took part in the Quidditch game as a chaser until the game became too vitriolic, at which time he left off to take his lady to a special place visible from the camp, although it was many miles away. They apparated side by side, hands joined, to the very top rim of Mount Kilimanjaro, where they stood in awe gaping down at the plains.

"Wow," said Thalia softly, staring out over Tanzania. "I've never been so high. It's unbelievable." "Yeah, it is. Everything looks so tiny down there," he concurred in a hushed voice. He'd never been so high, either, for Quidditch didn't call for such drastic heights. He shuffled his boots in the snow and pressed himself to Thalia, who was shivering, her dress swirling round her knees in the chilly breeze. "I'm sorry, I didn't think about it being cold up here. Let me warm you up."

"With your kisses?" she teased.

"Well, yes…that and a warming charm," he answered, smiling. Drawing his wand, he cast a spell round them so they could stay to admire the landscape from their dizzying perch.

She glanced nervously behind them at the dormant volcano, then said dryly, "I hope it doesn't decide on today to explode. I mean, fireworks are all well and good when I'm with you, but I think I can forego that."

Abraxas laughed. How he loved her droll sense of humour! "I have something for you." He reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a small package that at one time had been beautifully wrapped, but at the moment was the worse for wear. He frowned at the crushed box, the ripped paper. "I should've given it to you before playing Quidditch."

"You didn't have to give me anything," she said, taking it all the same and kissing him lightly on the lips before ripping it open, then gasping. Inside lay a pair of earrings, each a fine chain of white gold that ended with a small ruby droplet. She had no doubt that these were real, actual rubies. Her hand went to her mouth and she stared first at the jewelry, then at the young man, then back to the earrings. "They're so beautiful. They must have cost a fortune."

"So?" he said, enjoying her delight. "Put them on."

She wasted no time in doing so, and turned her head for him to appreciate them. "How do they look?"

"Lovely," he murmured, not actually looking at the earrings. When he had a choice between that and her face, he'd always choose her. "I got them that day after the patients had gone home, and I said I was tired and went to my tent. I sneaked off into the brush and apparated to the wizarding section of Rome. They have a vast array of jewelry, though I wasn't sure what you'd like."

"I love these," Thalia declared vehemently. "You made the right decision. I'm sorry I have nothing for you."

"All I need is you," he said simply, hugging her as she melted into his arms.

"I don't want to go back to camp," Thalia said in a very quiet voice. "I wish I could stay here with you, on top of the world."

Abraxas sat down, pulling her petite form onto his lap, embracing her fiercely. His rump almost immediately felt the sting of the snow melting, burning cold through his thin trousers, but he didn't care. "Wherever I am with you is the top of the world to me."

"You say the sweetest things," she returned, shaking her head. In the back of her mind she heard her guardian-mother warning her about sweet-talking men, her Papa cautioning her to be wary of men's motives. She had precious little experience with adult wizards one on one, for he'd not allowed her to date, only to socialize in supervised groups. And now Brax had given her an obviously very expensive gift. Did he expect something in return…something of a carnal nature? "May I ask you something?"

"You just did, but alright," he said, smirking.

She hesitated, swallowing hard, then plowed ahead. "You're handsome, wealthy, intelligent. Why are you with me, a basically homeless orphan, when you could have any girl you want?"

"Because I want you," he answered simply.

She hated to push it, to spoil things, so she let it drop. She was happy, he seemed happy…couldn't she just let them stay that way? Did it truly matter why he chose her over the socialites in his circle? As much as she'd love to think it didn't matter, she knew it did. What if things progressed from here? She didn't have the upbringing to know how to navigate properly in his world. Or worse—what if that wasn't his intention at all? What if he was only playing with her, planning to later discard her, as Papa had said men liked to do with girls, especially rich men who thought they owned the world and everything in it.

"I'm not going to have sex with you," she blurted out of the blue.

"O…kay," Abraxas said, puzzled. Where had that come from? She had pulled away from him a tad, staring defiantly at him. "I wasn't asking you to, but I'll keep that in mind." A crooked grin lit his face.

Apologetically, she stammered, "I—I didn't mean that. Well—yes I did. I mean, I'm not that kind of girl."

"I never thought you were."

"Brax, you brought me to the top of a bleeding volcano, for crying out loud! And then gave me gorgeous earrings that had to cost an arm and a leg," she exclaimed, gesturing at the mountain top, stroking a loving finger over the earrings. "And you sit here looking all provocative..."

Struggling to contain a laugh, he managed to keep it to a grin. "Provocative? Darling, forgive my language, but my arse is soaking wet and numb, my bits are shriveled from the cold, and believe me when I say I am not entirely sure I'm capable of being amorous at this moment. But thank you all the same for the compliment."

Thalia blushed deeply, then buried her face in his chest, which shook with suppressed laughter. "I feel like an idiot."

"That's okay, you're my idiot," he cooed, wrapping his arms round her tightly, lifting her chin to point her face at his, and going in to plant one on her. Soon they'd have to return to camp, before dark fell. He hoped to get as much snuggling and snogging from this trip as possible.

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Well past dusk they apparated back to camp together behind the kitchen area, where Abraxas gave her one final squeeze and hard kiss before letting her go. After a few moments he sent a drying charm to his rump, then wandered in the direction of their tents, following far enough behind to prevent the casual observer from noticing anything amiss, though he barely took his eyes off the sway of Thalia's slim hips. Evidently he was capable of amorous activity after all; he smirked to himself. He'd almost made it to his tent when a strong hand from behind grabbed him and whirled him around. His own hand went for his wand, until he saw who it was.

"Frank, don't do that. After Father's little visit, I'm not up for games," Abraxas said sternly.

"I can't believe you!" Frank replied, ignoring his admonition. "I saw you kissing Thalia! How long have you two been sneaking around together?"

"Shhh!" Abraxas hissed, quickly glancing around. No point in denying it if Frank had seen it, right? "Keep your voice down, I have to be discreet. Can't let news travel, if you know what I mean."

"I doubt anyone here even knows you're engaged," Frank shot back.

"And I'd like to keep it that way."

Frank blocked his entrance when he attempted to go into the tent. "So…what? You're just having fun with a bit of skirt?"

Abraxas had to hold himself back from slamming his fist into his friend's jaw. "Don't you dare talk about her like that, or give those leering looks! I haven't done anything inappropriate."

"Aside from snogging a woman who's not your betrothed," Frank answered with a withering glare.

Abraxas shoved him and went into the tent. Frank followed him in and threw himself onto his cot. This was just peachy, wasn't it? He knew, of course, that Abraxas was less than thrilled to be chained to Eileen, but he honestly hadn't expected him to start an affair of any sort, sexual or otherwise. And he especially didn't like knowing about it, for it made him feel like he was part of the conspiracy, the duplicity. He turned on his side, facing the wall.

Abraxas sat on his own bunk, head in his hands. He'd done it now, he'd let someone find out—and that someone was his best friend, who apparently now despised him! Why did everything in his life have to be so bloody, f—king difficult! "Frank…it's not what you think." When his friend made no motion to indicate he'd even heard, he tried again. "You know I don't care for Eileen, I never did. I love Thalia."

Still nothing, then a slight stirring. All at once Frank lurched over onto his other side, then sat up. "So you're not just amusing yourself? You really love her?"

"Yes."

"That makes things a lot more complicated, doesn't it?"

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Inside her tent, Thalia let the flap fall closed and floated to her cot, where she sat hugging herself and thinking of Brax's arms enveloping her. Sighing, she lay down and smiled, vaguely wondering why her tent mate never seemed to be here. When she heard Brax's voice outside, her heart leapt in her chest. Uh-oh, Frank had seen them kissing! And then the words that made her brain literally freeze, unable to get past the words or comprehend anything else she heard.

"_I doubt anyone here even knows you're engaged."_

_"And I'd like to keep it that way."_

The words rang through her mind over and over, drowning out the buzzing in her head as she flipped onto her stomach to sob into her pillow.


	13. Between a Rock and a Hard Place

11

Father, My Father—Chapter 13 Between a Rock and a Hard Place

**26 December 1947**

Abraxas called softly outside Thalia's tent, which was located not two meters from his own. When he heard no stirring within, he knocked at the canvas, making a dull thudding sound. "Thalia? Aren't you coming to breakfast?" When there was no reply, he cautiously turned aside the flap and looked in. It was empty, a rumpled blanket thrown over her cot. Well, that was unusual; normally he, Frank, and Thalia went together. Perhaps she'd needed to use the latrine. That was probably it.

Today Frank had gone on ahead, still a tad disgruntled at the turn of events the previous night. He'd talked at length with his friend about the relationship with Thalia, and while he agreed in principal that Abraxas ought to be allowed to choose his own mate, his upbringing poked him repeatedly in the brain, reminding him that the Malfoy chap had made a commitment already. But he loved someone else—which was fine, if Frank hadn't been burdened with the knowledge of it. Now he felt like an accessory to a crime.

And so Abraxas trudged alone across the field to the ring of stones set about the embers from last night's fire. He stopped cold in his tracks several meters away when he saw Thalia sitting between two blokes, one of them from his group…and he had an arm around her shoulders. Abraxas experienced a sudden, severe desire to wrench the man off the rock by his long, voluminous hair and kick his face in.

Taking a deep breath, he traversed the remainder of the space, stepped over the stones to enter the circle, and calmly strode over to the pair. "Good morning, Thalia." He ignored the other completely, save for a hateful glower.

"What's your problem, Malfoy?" asked the man named Colbert.

Abraxas fixed his gaze on Thalia, whose eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, her shoulders slumped. The food on her plate hadn't been touched. "Thalia, is something wrong?"

She finally looked up at him, her lips set in a firm, straight line. She got up without speaking, thrust the plate into his chest, and walked off. He spun round to watch her go, uncomprehending.

"Did you do something to upset her?" asked Colbert, shoving a biscuit into his mouth. The next words were difficult to understand over the lump of food. "She showed up a while ago acting all weird and quiet, and I could see she'd been crying."

"Is that why you were making advances toward her?" Abraxas growled, still not quite giving up on the beat-his-face-in idea.

Colbert took a swig of water, then sneered—almost good enough to have been Slytherin, but not quite. "So now comforting a colleague is 'making advances'? Why, do you have an eye on her? Not to say I'd blame you if you did, but she's cold as ice. Half the wizards here have tried chatting her up without success."

Abraxas grunted unintelligibly and sat down beside him with the plate resting on his knees. That was good news, right? Colbert wasn't trying to woo Thalia. But she was upset and refusing to speak to him about it…not good news. Had he done something inadvertently? No, she'd gone to her tent after they parted on happy terms. Perhaps she was in the throes of menses—that seemed to explain a lot of womanly oddities. Yes, that was likely it. Glancing down at the plate of food, he smiled ruefully; Thalia ate like a bird—literally. Hardly any meat, mostly fruits and some breads. No need to let it go to waste, so he scarfed it down before time to get to work.

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All morning they worked side by side, with nary a word spoken between them, the chill in the air having nothing to do with the balmy weather. To Abraxas' left was Colbert, then Frank, and finally the girl whose name he never could remember—or never cared to remember—each tending a table at their station. All about the camp the throng of villagers, mainly women and children, waited patiently in the hot sun for their turns, occasionally swiping at the flies buzzing round. Here and there moans and cries of pain rang out.

A girl of about six, her hair sheared short like everyone else, her almond shaped eyes large and full of pain, crawled up onto Thalia's table with some assistance, and sat quietly while Thalia spoke with the translator about her injury. Taking her wand, Thalia ran it the length of the girl's arm, halting midway between the wrist and elbow.

"It's swollen and tender, but the break is only a greenstick. I'm going to reduce the inflammation, then give her some of this medicine to strengthen the bone and heal it." The interpreter rattled off a string of words, and the child's mother nodded, smiling gratefully.

When Thalia was finished, the child jumped into her mother's arms and whispered something in her ear. The mother laughed and repeated it to the interpreter, who chuckled as he said, "They see your blond beauty," he indicated not only Thalia, but Abraxas, "and ask if you are angels like the missionaries tell them about."

"No, sweetie, we're not—at least some of us aren't," Thalia said, throwing a scowl in Abraxas' direction.

And so it went till mid-day break. Thalia headed for the eating area, but Abraxas' longer legs allowed him to cut her off, and he planted himself right in front of her. "Thalia, why are you ignoring me? What's wrong?"

Seething as if about to scream, but controlling herself for the benefit of all those in the vicinity, she said in a clipped tone, "You're betrothed to another woman. That's what's wrong, you slimy, sneaky, arrogant son of a bitch!" Taking the earrings he'd given her from her pocket, she flung them into his face and walked off.

Abraxas' heart leapt into his throat, and for the life of him he thought he might choke on his own guilt and despair. She knew! How could she know? She must hate him with a passion now! He tried to speak but no words came out, and already she was too far away to hear without shouting. Going down on one knee, he gently picked up one earring from the dirt, then the other. In his swirling mind, Frank's face kept coming to the forefront. He was the only one aware of the situation, the only one who could have told her; he didn't approve of Abraxas' actions, and maybe he'd decided to do something about it. It had to be him.

Marching purposefully across the camp, he cornered Frank between the kitchen and the dining circle, grabbed him by the collar, and swung him hard into the nearest post. His face thumped against it; he twisted out of the other man's grasp, raising his wand and shouting, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Abraxas remained where he was, not dim-witted enough to attempt anything else with a wand aimed at his chest. "You told her," he growled, pointing vaguely in the direction of Thalia.

"I did not!" Frank barked back, rubbing at the blood coming from his now-crooked nose. "And you broke my nose, you arsehole!"

"What is going on here?" bellowed the camp coordinator, Clive, pushing his way through the growing clump of onlookers. "Fighting is strictly prohibited." In fact, the list of rules not only forbade fighting, it included the penalty—expulsion from the camp.

"We're…roughhousing," Frank said, not looking like he was having a very good time for a game. "It got out of hand. Isn't that right, Abraxas?" His attempt at a genial smile at his foe came off amazingly convincing.

"Yes, sorry," Malfoy muttered, stepping in to examine Frank's nose. He took out his wand to straighten it with a snap, _scourgified_ the blood, then sang a quiet chant to reduce the rapid swelling near the eyes. Talking to the camp coordinator, he added, "It won't happen again."

"I should hope not. It shows an appalling example for the people coming to us for help." Clive gave a not-quite-believing nod and went on his way.

The moment he was out of earshot, Frank hissed, "What the hell? Why would you think I told her?"

In answer Abraxas held up the earrings he'd picked up from the ground. "I gave her these yesterday. Today she threw them in my face and said she knew I was betrothed. Hard to mistake that, yeah?"

"Well, it wasn't me. Why don't you just go talk to her?"

"Oh, I never thought of that," Abraxas remarked in a withering voice. "She won't talk to me!"

"And you never saw this coming? Really?" said Frank, stalking off toward the kitchen. No matter if his friend was being a jackass, he was hungry. With Abraxas following on his heels, he continued, "What did you think she'd say when she found out? Once you got back to England, the jig would be up."

"I was hoping…I thought she'd come to love me, and I'd break the engagement, and she'd never know." Now that he'd said it aloud, it sounded incredibly silly and naïve. Everyone in his social circle had been informed of the betrothal—most of them had been there to see it done! How was it that Thalia wouldn't hear the reports, probably from everyone she met, wondering how she'd convinced him to break his pledge, what womanly wiles she'd brought out to force his hand.

"Well, that was incredibly stupid," said Frank, loading a plate with meat and vegetables. Behind him Abraxas trailed pitifully, not bothering to gather food he knew he'd be unable to choke down. "It doesn't much matter how she found out. If you love her, you'd better get your arse in gear and make amends, get her to forgive you. I've seen men eyeing her, and I doubt she'll remain alone for long, even if it's purely to spite you."

Abraxas was on the verge of saying she wasn't that kind of witch, but honestly he had no idea what she was capable of. Colbert had said many men tried to get her attention…conceivably she'd rebuffed them because she was seeing Abraxas. With him removed from the picture, what was stopping her from falling prey to their charm? "Are you suggesting I grovel?"

"The situation sort of warrants it, don't you think?" Frank carried his plate toward the circle. He stopped and turned when he noticed Abraxas wasn't coming along. "You're not going to eat?"

"I'm not hungry." He slumped over to his station and sat down to wait. Soon enough Thalia would be here beside him again, and he couldn't think of a single reason in the world that she ought to excuse his duplicity. But he had to try. If he had to throw himself on his knees and beg her pardon, it wasn't anything worse than he deserved…and if she forgave him, it was far more than he deserved.

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Abraxas already had a little boy on his table when Thalia returned from lunch. He'd had to re-break the child's leg, which had healed at a sickening angle some months earlier, in order to set it properly and commence with the healing. Now that the child had finally calmed down, he was hoping to finish the job in peace. When he saw Thalia approaching, his stomach lurched.

Face flushed with shame, he leaned in closer to her and said, "Please let me explain."

The glare she directed at him was akin to gazing at a bug squashed on a windshield. "What is there to explain? You've been courting me, and all along you've been engaged. How am I supposed to take that?"

"Thalia, it's complicated. She…my…my betrothed…she's only twelve. No, thirteen. No, wait, she turns fourteen in February," he stammered, trying to recall anything about Eileen, all knowledge of which seemed to vanish when confronted with Thalia's ire.

"Oh, a cradle robber!" she exclaimed in disgust, eyes shooting daggers that fortunately for him were only figurative. "I sure dodged a curse there, didn't I?"

The little boy on the table looked back and forth between the two, not understanding what they were saying, but understanding the angry tone. His lips began to quiver, then he burst into sobs.

"Now you've made him cry. I hope you're happy." She turned away to tend the woman approaching her table.

"It's an arranged engagement, I didn't want it!" he pleaded, fully aware of every ear in the area attuned to their conversation. "Can we please talk in privacy?" No response. "_Please?_"

"Shouldn't you be helping that boy?" she asked sharply, her back to him. Then, after a long pause, "I'll come to your tent after supper. But don't think I'm going to believe a word you say ever again, Abraxas Malfoy."

Stung both at her tone and at her use of his full name, he nodded numbly. It was the best he could hope for, considering the circumstances. He had no idea what he could possibly say to make her love him now.

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"If I read this correctly, and I don't see any other way to read it, you go around seducing women, then conveniently drop them when you bring up your betrothal," Thalia said in a scathing voice dripping of icy undertones. "Or were you going to bring it up at all?"

Through gritted teeth, Abraxas growled, "I find that highly offensive. For one thing, if I 'go around seducing women', I must be pretty bad at it, since I've never been with a woman in my life! For another thing, I would have mentioned my betrothal right from the start if it wasn't for you! So technically it's your fault!"

"My fault?" Thalia echoed in disbelief.

"You bewitched me," Abraxas declared, staring her down.

"How dare you!" she shrieked back. "I'd never do such a thing!"

"Not with magic," he replied, his tone softening as he spoke. "With your smile, your beauty, your sweet voice. From the moment I saw you I was under your spell. You're 'Grace' personified."

"I tripped over the tent flap coming in here!" Thalia shouted shrilly.

"That notwithstanding, you're still lovely and clever," he said stubbornly. "You're everything I ever wanted in a woman, and didn't even know I wanted till I met you."

"I'm supposed to believe this drivel?" said Thalia, crossing her arms and tapping a foot impatiently. "How stupid do you think I am?"

"If I thought you were stupid, I wouldn't want to marry you!" he bellowed.

There was a tense, awkward pause.

Thalia scrutinized the wizard with extreme cynicism. "Now you're just making up things to patronize me so I'll keep seeing you."

In reply he pulled a small velvet covered box from his trouser pocket and offered it to her. She cautiously took it and opened it to reveal a diamond engagement ring, one of the largest diamonds and certainly the most beautiful ring she'd ever seen. The band was of brushed white gold; on either side of the main diamond were ruby droplets reminiscent of the earrings he'd given her. Truly speechless, she waited for his explanation.

"I bought it when I purchased those earrings for you—which, by the way, I am not taking back." He thrust them into her fist and moved away, challenging her to throw them at him again. "I figured it was too early to ask you to marry me, but I wanted to be ready in case you decided to love me back." His voice trailed off into a whisper, "I guess that's not going to happen."

Another infuriatingly long silence, while Thalia processed what he'd said. Finally she murmured, "What about…whatever her name is?"

"What about her?"

"Do you love her?"

"No," he said quickly, honestly. "I told you it was arranged by my parents."

"But you're still going to marry her, so it really doesn't matter, does it?" Thalia said, holding back the tears threatening to rain down. She started for the exit, dropping the ring on the floor.

"That depends on you." Abraxas rejoiced inwardly when she stopped to listen to what he had to say. "I love you, Thalia. If you can tell me that you love me, I'll break the engagement."

Thalia spun slowly around to face him. "Just like that?"

"Just like that," he repeated.

She shook her head. Why was she listening to this nonsense? He was a rich, spoiled brat who was only trying to keep her on the hook until he'd had his fun. Until he'd deflowered her, most likely. With more than a hint of venom, she said, "I may be a 'backward, lowly peon', but I know that breaking a betrothal isn't that simple."

"No, it's not simple," he agreed, slightly irritated at her obstinacy. "Which is why I need to know how you feel about me before I upend my life and hers. If you love me, I will end the betrothal…if not, it doesn't matter who I marry, because I'll never love her anyway. I'll carry through on my commitment to avoid scandal for her and my family."

Caught between a rock and a hard place, Thalia stood there gaping at him. She'd never known Brax to lie; for Merlin's sake, he had an engagement ring in his pocket—why would he do that if he weren't serious? The betrothal, if he could be believed, was arranged and no love involved. Would it be so terrible to end it, to let him enjoy his life, to permit him to love? And yet, the fact remained he WAS betrothed. How could she accept a ring from him under such circumstances? What if he changed his mind later?

She took a deep breath and let it out. Slowly, very gently, she said, "I do love you. But I can't accept a ring or a proposal from you, Brax…not while you're engaged. When you're free to make that proposal, I will enthusiastically accept it."

Abraxas' face lit like a Christmas tree. "You mean it? You'll marry me?"

"When you're free to marry me," she reiterated. "And when might that be?"

"Oh, well," he hemmed, ashamed again. "I can't break the betrothal until I return to England. It must be done in person, in public…you know the rules."

"Yes," she said softly. She knew. "Until then, what about us?"

"Can't we continue where we left off?" he said, more imploring than asking. "I swear to you I'd rather die than lose you." He took a nervous step toward her, holding out his arms.

After a moment's hesitation, Thalia stepped forward, to be enclosed in his strong arms. It felt so right. She prayed she was doing the right thing as her lips met his.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

Frank waited till he saw Thalia enter her tent before approaching his own. She looked happy, if spent. He had to assume Abraxas would be similarly exhausted from the emotional turmoil. Casting aside the flap, he barged in with the comment, "Neither of you bothered to put up a silencing spell. I could hear you yelling halfway across the camp."

Mortified at the prospect of everyone knowing his business, Abraxas gulped. "Crap. I didn't even think of it. How bad was it?"

Frank shrugged, grinning. "Well, everyone knows that you love Thalia. I'm not so sure how many heard the part about being engaged, but you'll have to assume word will get around. I had to come closer to hear the rest of the conversation. Hey, I wasn't eavesdropping on purpose, I was coming to my tent! Not my fault you were already in here."

Abraxas, who'd dropped onto his cot, lay back with his hands over his face. Great, everyone now knew about Eileen…he prayed very hard that no one was malicious enough to look her up and inform her of what was going on. None of the people here was from his social circle except Frank, hopefully they wouldn't concern themselves with his love life.

"Abraxas, it might not be my place to say this, but as your friend I have to." Frank sat on his own cot, facing Malfoy, looking very grim. The other wizard turned his head toward him, waiting. "You'd better make sure this is what you really want. Typically when a betrothal is dissolved, it's because the _other_ party did something unforgivable. Once it's done, you can't take it back."

"I love Thalia, Frank. I'll never feel that way about Eileen."

"Alright, fair enough," said Frank, nodding. "Then for everyone's sake, especially Eileen, you've got to do it in the nicest way possible—if that way even exists. Keep in mind one or both of you—hell, all three of you are going to be vilified by society." Ticking the sentences off on his fingers, he counted, "They'll say Eileen cheated on you or did something else horrible. Thalia is a home wrecking whore." Here he dodged and bobbed as Abraxas flew off the bed and punched at his head.

"Don't talk about her like that!"

"I'm not!" shouted Frank, shoving him backward. "The rest of the people will be! And stop attacking me!"

"Sorry," Abraxas mumbled, resuming his seat on his bed. "I get carried away where Thalia is concerned. What am I supposed to do? Thalia said she loves me. I can't marry Eileen now; I won't."

Frank nodded again. In Abraxas' shoes he may have done the same. "I get it. Anyway, our society gossips will say those things and worse, you know they will. And don't forget you're a lowbrow, two-timing fink in their books. It's going to happen, so brace for it—and warn Thalia. Aside from that, there isn't much you can do."

"Should I write to Eileen, let her down ahead of time?"

"Good heavens, no!" Frank gasped. He felt the compulsion to shake his friend by the shoulders. Love was not only blind, it was brainless as well! "You may as well write home and ask dear Daddy to come get you, and make sure to bring more torture devices! Be kind to her in your letters, but maybe stay aloof, you know? And try to think of a gentle way to break it to her when you get back. That's all I can advise."

"I appreciate it, Frank," Abraxas responded, staring into the air. He _so_ did not look forward to returning to England, for a myriad of reasons, Eileen not the least among them.


	14. Chapter 14

8

Father, My Father—Chapter 14

**Mid-February 1948**

_Dear Abraxas,_

_Thank you for the lovely birthday gift! I always wanted a pet, and what better than a beautiful parrot? I already taught it to say your name. It's just as perfect as the Christmas gobstones! It means so much to me that you consider what I like instead of just giving me tokens that are expected of you. Mother thinks you're being cheap, though don't tell her I said so. She said a young wizard is supposed to give his betrothed gifts that signify his intent. I am glad you're not like that._

"Ah, crap," Abraxas moaned, falling backward onto his cot, letter held in front of his face. He'd hoped that by not giving Eileen jewelry or anything that indicated a serious, mature relationship, that she'd get the idea he wasn't in love with her. Apparently he'd been reinforcing the idea in her head! Then again, was there anything he could have presented to her that wouldn't have given her the wrong idea, aside from perhaps a wrapped pile of warthog dung?

_My dad has been to visit your father several times in the past months. I think they're working out the details for our commitment ceremony when you come back. Because our engagement is so long compared to most, I guess they want to draw up a deal for us to sign. _

"Over my dead body," Abraxas growled.

'What about your dead body?" asked Frank, letting the tent flap fall down as he entered.

Abraxas lifted the letter and waved it heatedly in the air. "Eileen says our fathers are drawing up a contract for us to sign at our commitment ceremony. Frank, this is getting out of hand! It's four and a half months till we go home, and in the meantime they all think I'm gung-ho on this marriage thing. I hate this, I hate leading Eileen on, I hate not being there completely for Thalia. Why can't I just tell Eileen now?"

Frank sat on his bunk and kicked off his shoes. "I think you know the answer to that better than I do."

"What? My father will come and pulverize me? He's going to do that anyway, once I get home and break the engagement," Abraxas retorted. "Maybe I should do it now, get it over with, then come back here and finish the training."

"Assuming he lets you out of the house ever again…and that's a big assumption, knowing your dad. Do you think the staff here will allow you to take time off from the training?" asked Frank in all sincerity. "If so, maybe you've hit on the solution. If not, you've basically wasted all this time."

"I met Thalia. How could I ever consider that a waste of time?"

"Point taken," said Frank.

Abraxas was becoming animated, hope tearing a tiny hole in the fog of bleakness surrounding this whole wedding nonsense. "Dr. Hodgins would understand, I know she would. She could arrange it so I get my degree. It wouldn't take more than a week away—"

"A week?" exclaimed Frank, jaw dropping. "What exactly are you planning to do in all that time?"

The expression Malfoy shot his friend told the story before he opened his mouth. Nevertheless, he responded tightly, "I'm presuming Father needs time to torture me properly for my betrayal, and to try to convince me to give in to his demands. Eventually he'd have to let me go or kill me, and he can't do that; he needs an heir. So a day to annul the engagement, six days for punishment and hopefully a bit of healing…workable."

Frank merely stared at him as if he'd never heard anything so bizarre spoken of so casually, and yet he honestly couldn't argue the question. Once the betrothal was canceled, Horatio Malfoy would go ballistic. It might not be wise to let Abraxas go alone into the fire…but would the staff agree to permit Frank time off as well? Unlikely. "Abraxas, do you plan to discuss this with Thalia?"

"No. Why would I?"

"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps because you might not be coming back if you leave."

"Well, I only now got the idea, it's not like I've had time. And I don't enjoy talking to her about stuff my beloved sire does to me," Abraxas answered defensively. "On another note, I'd have to talk to Dr. Hodgins, who isn't in camp right now. I saw her leave this afternoon, but I don't know when she's coming back."

"This is serious business, Abraxas," said Frank softly, earnestly. "I'm afraid for you."

"Yeah, I know," he said, staring down at the floor. "Maybe…maybe your dad could come looking for me if I'm not back within a week. I just…I just want it to be over. I _need_ it to be over so I can live my life."

"I know. I wish there was a way to go about it that wouldn't get you half-killed, that's all," said Frank, nodding sadly. "And that wouldn't cause such a scandal as this will."

Abraxas let out a half-derisive snort. "You don't wish that any more than I do, my friend. If there's another way, I'm open for suggestions." He glanced at Frank, who shrugged helplessly. That's what he thought. Closing his eyes, he lay back. He needed to formulate a plan that would accomplish everything he needed to accomplish without getting him murdered by his own father or by Eileen's, and with any luck not cause a society brouhaha. He didn't bank on the luck part; he'd never had any reason to.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

_For the Greater Good_. Dr. Hodgins read the inscription carved in the smooth, jet black wall over the door with a sinking feeling in her stomach. Was she doing the right thing in coming here? Her eyes naturally rose upward with the structure, tall, narrow, pointing to heaven. Were it not so grim and forbidding, it might have been beautiful.

A lone guard met her at the gate to escort her to the top of the tower; along the way, in the hallway as well as on the staircases, a cold draft permeated the place. Now, in February, the dampness inherent in the structure clung to her like an icy stole, though it wasn't the only thing making her shudder. From her vantage point at a dizzying height, she looked out a window slit, down upon a collection of smaller dilapidated buildings which, in the old times, had been used for offices and detainment facilities before securing the prisoners in the tower itself. Grass poked through snow along a stone pathway.

"I'll need to take your wand if I let you in the cell," said the guard, startling her.

"Um, yes, I understand that," she replied, turning back to him. She took her wand from her pocket and handed it over.

With his own wand, the wizard ran a quick diagnostic over her, ensuring she was weapon-free, charm-free, and disguise-free. Satisfied that she was not a threat and was who she professed to be, he spelled the lock of the heavy door, swung it open for her, and watched her go inside. It shut with a click behind her, though glancing back over her shoulder she saw his face pressed against the bars of the door, keeping watch. She assumed he must be vigilant in case she were attacked, to put down the prisoner before he could do any damage.

Ahead of her, on an obviously uncomfortable stone bed, sat a man in his mid to late sixties, wrapped in a thin, ragged blanket. His golden blond hair, while thinning a touch, was surprisingly thick for a man of his age. He looked up at her without a word. A soft smirk touched his lips.

"You look well, considering," she said at last. He'd been in this horrid place for over two years and had lost some weight, but retained muscle tone.

"You're looking old," he responded in a raspy voice, ill-used to speaking much anymore. "You're only twelve years older than I am. All that charity work doesn't agree with you."

"Same old Gellert, I see." She would have crossed the room if there were space to do so. The cell was so small that if she took a few paces, she'd be upon the man.

"What brings you here, oh great doctor? You've never before deigned to come see me," he said in a mocking tone. Then in disgust he added, "Dr. Dorshea Grindelwald Hodgins, aren't you afraid of ruining your pristine reputation by coming to visit the Darkest wizard of all time? Once you married, I'll bet you never laid claim to the Grindelwald name again." He snorted to show his annoyance and stared her down.

She refused to be cowed, and stared right back. "Not in the last several years, that's for sure," she shot back. "And I'll admit, the prospect of scandal doesn't thrill me. However, I didn't come for your scintillating company, nephew."

"I know. You want something."

"Don't you dare use Legilimency on me, you little prat!" she barked, averting her eyes.

Gellert laughed out loud, his first honest laugh in many years—one that didn't involve torturing or killing his enemies, that is. He twisted on his bed to face her more fully. "I've missed you, Aunt Dorrie. Nobody else except Alb—nobody else was ever so straightforward and candid with me. As you may imagine, most people are—or were—afraid of me."

"Everyone else didn't change your nappies. Everyone else didn't see the toddler-you running naked through the blackberry patch chasing that polecat ferret, and getting slashed by thorns for your trouble. Everyone else didn't watch you moon over the neighbor girl when you were thirteen. Real scary stuff," she said dryly.

Smiling, with a faraway look in his eyes, he leaned back against the wall. "Alright, what do you want?"

Slightly surprised at how easily he'd acquiesced, she ventured, "You mean you're willing to help me?"

He shrugged. "It's not like I have other pressing matters to attend to. Tell me what it is and we'll see."

"One of the boys—young men—I am training has a…how do I put this delicately? He's got a sadistic arsehole for a father," she said.

"And you were hoping I'd invite you to call me names as well?" he asked, quirking up his brows a tad.

Dorshea flushed. She hadn't meant to allude to her nephew's crimes or alleged crimes, or to him at all. "Gellert, not everything is about you. I came here because you're the most accomplished wizard in the world in Dark Magic—"

"Which means it _is_ about me," he crowed, laughing again.

"Partly," she conceded reluctantly. "It's more about your knowledge than you. At any rate, as I was saying…" In a few minutes she'd summarized the conundrum of the disk lodged in Abraxas' spine, along with the spell she'd been using weekly to divert the pain away from the unfortunate lad. "…and I've pored over my Dark Arts books till my eyes nearly bleed, but I can't find any spell even remotely related to something like this. I'd like to disable the damned device so I can remove it and he can have some peace."

"Why don't you go to the boy's father, shove your wand in his face, and demand to know the countercurse, under pain of death?" he asked, blinking innocently. When she turned a reproving glare his way, he snickered. He'd always enjoyed getting her dander up.

"That's not funny."

"I thought it was," he retorted.

Dr. Hodgins heaved a martyr-like sigh, wrapping her arms round herself for warmth. It surely was frigid in here! "Gellert, please be serious. Do you know what curse he may have used on that disk to cause it to behave this way…and more to the point, do you know the countercurse to shut it off?"

"Of course I don't," he replied simply. "I mean, I haven't exactly consulted with him, have I?" Noting her crestfallen air, he added grudgingly, "But I do know four curses that could conceivably be used for this type of torture."

The witch took two steps over and perched on the edge of his bed beside him. She recognized that gleam in his eye that said he was about to brag on himself—which likely meant he'd invented one or more of those curses. "And?"

"Well, since I invented two of them and never shared them with anyone else, they can't have been used," he said. Dorshea nodded to herself; she'd been right. He, on the other hand, took it as a sign to go on. "There's a problem with the other two, Aunt Dorrie. These are not spells you'll learn in any academy, or from any reputable teacher. _If_ this wizard used one of them, and _if_ you use the right reversal spell, the disk will turn off and everything will be hunky-dory; if you use the wrong countercurse, it would probably kill the kid by kicking the device into euphoria overdrive."

Dr. Hodgins sucked in a horrified gasp. "Oh, thank God I didn't try to use any spell yet! I was considering it, I almost did…"

"At least he'd die happy," remarked the wizard. Then, at her stricken, appalled countenance, he said, "Honestly, can't you take a little joke? I meant only one of these two specific curses could cause that. Whatever you've got in your books isn't likely to harm him, or to have any effect at all." Gellert broke into a fit of prolonged coughing. When he'd done, his face seemed white and drawn. "And we don't even know for sure it is one of these two spells. The father might have made up his own curse, in which case we can't do a bloody thing to reverse it."

There was a long, silent pause, with only the sound of the wind whistling in around the window pane.

"Is there anything you can tell me that will help?" she asked at last, feeling defeated and discouraged.

"Yes."

Another pause while she waited, then exclaimed, "Well?"

Grinning like a little boy, he said, "As much as it pains me to say this, you're a top-notch doctor, Aunt Dorrie. You can remove the device without disabling it."

Shaking her head, she responded, "His father warned him that to do so would cause an exponential increase in the pain—possibly even life-threatening."

"Again, you're a _doctor_! And a damned good one," Gellert repeated. "Surgical removal would be a huge mistake, you're right. It has woven its threads into the spinal column; any attempt to manually pull it out would prompt the disk to click on full time and full strength. However, I can give you the spell to detach the disk with the least amount of trouble, while giving you opportunity to put into place safeguards and spells to assist in his recovery. You'll have to deal with the medical issues that arise from it…convulsions, heart stoppage, you know." He waved a hand as if these were minor inconveniences.

"Can you guarantee it won't kill him?" she asked softly.

"Yes," he said again. "For one, the father doesn't want his son dead, or he'd have used something geared more to that effort. You told me he's the heir—his father isn't going to kill his heir, so no matter how much pain he'd have to endure, it won't be to the point of death. Second, I'd trust you to do it to me. Is that enough said?"

This time it was Dr. Hodgins' turn to smile, which she did almost shyly. Gellert wasn't one to pay tribute to doctors, and he'd always loved to torment his aunt to distraction. Hearing praise from his lips wasn't something she was used to. Nonetheless, he'd always been honest with her; in his way, despite what the world may think of Gellert Grindelwald, he loved her as she loved him. He wasn't going to tell her something that would cause her to murder a boy, to cause her to end up like himself.

Her head bobbed slowly. "Teach me the spell, Gellert. And thank you for the compliment…and for everything."

He merely shrugged in acknowledgement. "It's true, you know. I've had a lot of time to sit here and think. I find myself thinking a lot of my youth, my family. I expect I'll have a whole lot more time for that, so why not do something productive, right?"

He held up his hand, thumb against forefinger as though holding a wand. "You need to use precise movements with your wand as you sing the chant. Practice with me first, then we'll add the chant later…"


	15. Chapter 15

8

Father, My Father—Chapter 15

**20 February 1948**

With the white canvas sides drawn down on the medical station, a single light burning inside, it seemed very closed in, very unlike the way Abraxas was used to seeing it. Not to mention he was seated on the examining table, a reversal from his normal position as healer, not patient. He squirmed ever so slightly, and his heart beat a tad faster. In front of him, Dr. Hodgins sat on a high stool, her keen eyes piercing him as she spoke.

"Abraxas, I've consulted the highest authority where this diabolical disk is concerned. I won't mince words with you: we cannot attempt to turn it off without risking your death." She cleared her throat, almost wishing he'd speak, but he simply kept staring at her with those wide grey eyes, and gulping occasionally. "However, Ge—he believes it is possible to remove it without deactivating it."

Abraxas nodded slowly. "That's good then. Right?" The fact that she'd brought him in here to talk about it, away from everyone, a silencing spell in place, said otherwise.

"Yes." She sounded less than certain. "That is, you have three choices. The one that I'd suggest is to leave it in place until your training is complete and you return home, where your father will remove it. I'm perfectly capable of diverting the pain each week until then. Another option is to go home now and have it removed, then return here." The look on the young man's face plainly said he found the idea both objectionable and unsatisfactory on many levels. "The third alternative is to detach it here while minimizing the pain and consequences. It's not without risk."

"When you said this 'high authority' believes it can be taken off, I thought it meant that it wouldn't hurt me," he replied softly. Was that accusation in his eyes, or merely a trick of the light?

"I'm sorry, Abraxas." She shook her head wearily. "Since I got back I've been pondering what to do, what might result from the procedure and how to mitigate it. There's a good chance that it will do significant damage unless we utilize a variety of precautions and emergency techniques, and I'd need two assistants for that. I understand that you're reluctant to let anyone know about this disk…I don't have the right to make that decision for you."

He sucked in a disappointed breath. He'd so hoped the end was on the horizon. Ducking his head, he let the words float through his mind again. Father hadn't been lying, then; if they removed the disk, he'd be hurting himself unnecessarily. And yet, Dr. Hodgins said it _was_ possible, and oh, how he'd love to take the damned torture device home and throw it at his father's feet, let him see that he couldn't always win!

In a voice that seemed outside himself, strange to his ears, he asked, "Can you do it today?"

"What?" she answered, startled. "You actually want me to remove it, knowing there will be complications to deal with?"

His head bobbed slowly once, twice, thrice. "Yes. I want it gone." He paused only a second before adding, "Can Frank and Thalia be your assistants? They already know, I trust them…"

"Of course. I'd need to teach them a few spells. I think tomorrow would be better, once we've all had plenty of time to practice our parts…and time for you to make sure this is what you want." She cocked an eyebrow at him, and he grinned back at her.

"I'm sure, Doctor. I've had this thing in long enough to last a lifetime." He smiled grimly. The look on his father's face when he saw that his dear son no longer played his repugnant game would be priceless.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

**21 February 1948**

It was dark in the camp, save the lights inside of tents and the ever-burning fire where meals were eaten. At present no one was seated there, which was probably for the best; they might wonder why one of the stations was lit up brightly inside, and the shapes of three people moving about could be discerned as shadows through the canvas walls. Even if curiosity drew them near, they'd hear nothing due to the potent silencing charm Dr. Hodgins had erected in preparation for the surgery.

Inside, she was giving last minute instructions to the nervous pair acting as her assistants. "Frank, what is your role?"

He closed his eyes for a brief second. "When you pop out the disk, I immediately shoot a numbing charm, followed by insertion of this syringe at the spot where the disk was." He held up a fat, long-needled syringe that made Abraxas cringe.

"Exactly. Make sure to completely empty the contents into his back," she added. "Not a moment's hesitation, do you hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am." Wiping a film of sweat from his brow, fear rushing through him in a shiver, he glanced at Abraxas on the table. He couldn't bear the thought of hurting his best friend, and this contraption looked fit to skewer him.

Dr. Hodgins had turned her attention to the young woman. "Thalia, the instant the disk comes out what do you do?"

"Cast the anti-convulsant charm you taught me," Thalia murmured. She was trembling.

"Let me hear it," instructed the doctor.

Thalia timorously mumbled the charm softly, so softly that the old witch clucked her tongue and barked, "Speak up!"

"_Eschec convellere. Anta nu curs."_

"Perfect," said the doctor. "After you do that, then what?"

Thalia held up a small, sharp pin no larger than an inch, with a flat, round base. It had been treated with medicine to combat the dark spell of the disk. "I press this into the skin of his neck beside the carotid artery."

"Do not hit the artery. That is of paramount importance."

"No, ma'am….I mean yes, ma'am…I won't." Thalia bit down on her lip, shoving away the creeping panic inside her. For any other patient, this would simply be a procedure that she'd handle with detachment and professionalism. This wasn't any other patient, this was the man she loved with all her heart, and to know she was on the verge of doing something to cause him extreme distress…but she had to do this for Brax. He'd asked her to, he wanted this…how could she say no?

"Alright, it looks as though we're all ready." Dr. Hodgins faced Abraxas, who was sitting on the table, shirt off, heart thudding so hard and fast in his chest he felt a little faint. Having suffered excessive, debilitating pain from this disk many times, the notion of enduring pain even stronger proved daunting. She handed him a tiny vial filled with viscous blue liquid. "Abraxas, before we begin I need you to drink a bit of _lif capere_." At the look of sudden alarm on his features, she said, "Although _lif capere_ is typically used to help revive a dying patient, I don't believe we need to worry about this removal killing you, son. It's to diminish the abrupt, harsh shock to your system."

Abraxas took the vial, heaved a deep breath, and swallowed the entire contents. It tasted slightly minty. And greasy. A very odd combination.

"Lie down, please," said Dr. Hodgins.

When he'd done so on his stomach, she apologetically bound his hands and feet firmly to the table with strips of bandages. A final, heavy cloth wound repeatedly over his waist and under the table secured him. He understood, she'd informed him earlier that it must be so to lessen any moving about once the disk came out. Had she dared, she'd have used _immobulus_, but Gellert had made it perfectly clear that magic used aside from the healing charms tended to stand in the way, creating a weakened chance of success, and could cause a myriad of problems better done without. With Frank across the table from her and Thalia at Brax's head, they began.

Dorshea pointed her wand and started the poem-like Grecian chant Gellert had taught her as her hand swirled in infinitesimally small circles over the thumbnail-sized disk. At the end of the stanza, her wand tapped the disk lightly and rebounded with her arm jerking upward as if willing the thing out. Over and over she repeated the spell, and each time the disk lurched up toward her wand, faintly at first, increasing in force with each pass. On the sixth time, it dislodged itself from Malfoy's back with a sickening sucking sound to clunk against the wand as if held there by magnetic force. Long, filament-like tendrils attached to the main body of the device hung like spider legs from the gruesome object.

The instant the ghastly device was gone, Abraxas' body began to thrash wildly against the bindings, his agonized screams reverberating in the enclosed space. Trying very hard to ignore the hideous device and the torture the young man was undergoing, Frank and Thalia sprang into action. The numbing charm, followed by the syringe—held like a knife and plunged in to the hilt—made his back arch, and the screams lessened only because he seemed for all the world that he might pass out from the pain. As Frank performed his duty, Thalia murmured the anti-convulsant spell, and her fingers deftly snapped the pin into his neck despite her own quaking heart. Abraxas hissed at the sharp jolt. Meanwhile Dr. Hodgins had dropped the disk onto the floor and was severing the strips of cloth holding him to the table. With one hand she rolled him onto his back, shoved her wand against his solar plexus, and started reciting yet another spell to suck out Dark poison. Gradually the violent movements subsided until he lay on the table, spent, covered in sweat and panting. Unbidden tears ran from the corners of his eyes, to be gently wiped away by Thalia as she bent over to kiss his brow.

"Is it done?" she asked.

Dr. Hodgins nodded, lowering her wand. "Yes. It's out, and we've done all we can to negate the evil effects. I'll monitor him for the night to make sure there are no surprises, but I think the worst is over. Now, Abraxas, you need to sleep."

"I want it," he said blearily, barely conscious.

"Want what? To sleep?" asked Thalia, stroking his face.

"Want…the disk," he replied with obvious effort.

"Why?"

"To show his dad, I suspect," said Frank, picking up the detestable object from the floor, grimacing. "To rub in his face that he can't control him anymore."

Abraxas smiled weakly to agree with him. The next instant, he was asleep.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

**29 February 1948**

"Dr. Hodgins?" Abraxas waited outside her tent, not daring to stick his head through the flap lest she smack him for voyeurism. "May I speak with you?"

The witch flipped aside the flap and beckoned him inside, studying him. It had been several days since the procedure, and she'd been keeping a wary eye on the lad not only in the recovery room, but once he was released for duty two days later. "Are you alright? You haven't had any reactions since the operation, have you?"

"No, ma'am, I'm fit as a fiddle—thanks to you and your friend. Might I know to whom I owe my gratitude?" he answered.

She smiled back at him and turned away. "He'd rather remain anonymous." At least, _she'd_ prefer he remain that way. No doubt Gellert would relish the attention. "What brings you here?"

He ducked his head, feeling the tips of his ears going pink. "I have another favour to ask—and no, this one doesn't involve a torture device implanted on my person… at any rate not yet." May as well add that last bit, let her know of trouble on the horizon.

"Not yet?"

"You may not be aware that I'm engaged," he said slowly, not looking at her, the weight of her stare heavy on him.

"To Thalia? I assumed as much, the way I've seen you two spooning and cuddling lately," said Dr. Hodgins. "May I offer formal congratulations?"

"No—I mean, thank you. I mean—no." He was getting confused. "I'm not engaged to Thalia yet, that's the problem. I…I was betrothed at the age of seventeen in an arranged ceremony with a twelve-year-old." Good, the doctor appeared scandalized by that, it could work to his advantage. "Now that I've met Thalia and fallen in love, I refuse to marry this child. I have to break off the engagement, and I thought the sooner the better. She—the girl—thinks I care about her, but I don't. I never tried to lead her on, I swear I didn't, but she writes me letters saying things, and I feel so guilty, and I can't ask Thalia to marry me until I'm free of her, and—"

"How much time off do you need?" interrupted Dr. Hodgins.

He stopped in his tracks, not quite sure he'd heard right. "If I take time off, can I come back? Will I still get my degree?"

"I suppose so, if you work extra hours to make up for it when you return," she replied. "I'll see to it that Clive understands. Now, how much time? Two days? Three?"

"I was thinking more like a week," he responded quietly. "You—you know what my dad is like. When I break the betrothal, he's going to explode. I figured I'd need time to get over whatever…"

"Whatever he does to you in retribution," she finished for him, her lips pinched tight, puckering a white line around her mouth.

"Yes, ma'am," he murmured, flushing. "I could wait till the end of June, and I would, only Eileen will get the wrong idea, and I already feel so bad about it." He chewed his lip, waiting.

"Why do you put up with it, Abraxas?" she said suddenly. "I realize your family name is important to you, but what he does is beyond inhumane. He deserves to be in prison, and if he did things to another person that he does to you, he would be!"

Pregnant silence while Abraxas decided how to respond. Yes, now that he was an adult, he could prefer charges against his father for attacking him, for torturing him. And if he did, the newspapers would have a heyday with it, stomping Horatio's name in the mud—and, by association, his own name. The Malfoys had worked hard to get to the top of the societal ladder; did he have the right to topple them all with one word? No, and he wouldn't. He wanted his children to enjoy the benefits of being on top. That wasn't likely to happen if he bellowed to the world that Horatio Malfoy was a sadistic monster, and had him arrested to boot. "It's complicated, Dr. Hodgins. I don't know what to say to make you understand the mindset of generations of Malfoys."

She looked at him as if she wanted to slap him for stupidity, but said simply, "Let me know when you're leaving. The moment you get back, you report to me. I want to know you're well, unharmed, and not carrying any more torture disks on you before anything else, is that understood?"

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

He bowed slightly and ducked out of the tent. Now to inform Thalia of his impending trip. She'd be relieved to know he was finally breaking the betrothal and he could truly be hers. On the other hand, somehow he doubted she'd be quite so understanding if he told her _why_ it was going to take so long. Maybe he'd better not mention the part about Father beating him half to death…no need to upset her unnecessarily. It wasn't like she could do anything about it except worry, and that was the last thing he wanted for her. That settled, he strolled off to his tent to pack before meeting with his beloved. Tomorrow was going to be a hellish day, he could stand something good to fortify him.

(**A/N**: Before you tell me there is no 29 February, 1948 was a leap year. I do my homework, haha.

To** hydro-needle:** I'm glad you like Ladon enough to want a story about him, that's very flattering. If you haven't read "The Beginnings of a Death Eater" and "I, Too, Shall Follow", please do so. They give a LOT of background information—they take place before JKR's stories begin—and hence a lot of information so that "Death Eater No More" makes more sense.)


	16. Home, Sweet Home

11

Father, My Father—Chapter 16 (Home, Sweet Home)

**29 February 1948**

"Darling," cooed Horatio, sticking his head around the door frame of Nicolette's room. The gleam in his eye made it evident that he wasn't coming to socialize.

"Yes, dear?" asked Nicolette, pretending not to see his desire. It wasn't that she objected to his advances when he was kind about it, which for the past two months he had been; she simply took pleasure in making him work for it.

He entered the room and came to stand next to her vanity, where she was brushing her hair. Taking the brush out of her hand, he glided it down her long, thick tresses, stroking it with his fingers, reveling in the touch of it on his skin. It was one of the reasons, when his parents had decided to arrange a wedding for him and had invited all the eligible young pureblood ladies to a soiree, that he'd asked to be arranged with Nicolette—that lovely mane of hers. And she was still so pretty, he couldn't complain about that, either.

As he brushed, he leaned in close to her, his breath misty and hot on her neck. "Nicolette, remember the game we used to play in the first years of our marriage?"

The witch's cheeks tinged pink. How well she remembered! "That was a long time ago, Horatio, before Abraxas was born."

"Precisely my point, it's been far too long. Why shouldn't we pick up where we left off?"

She faltered, searching for an answer and finding none. At last she said weakly, "It seems… perverse somehow."

"You didn't always think so."

"It was your idea from the beginning," she replied, turning to him with eyes flashing.

"Initially, yes, but I know you enjoyed it as much as I did," he went on, studying her hungrily, the brush forgotten in his hand. "I was there, remember? I can tell if you're faking it, and you weren't."

"I only want to be with you, Horatio."

"And you are with me, darling," he said, sliding down onto the seat beside her, making her budge up and putting an arm round her shoulders. "You're alive, proving it is indeed me. That pesky Unbreakable Vow of fidelity doesn't allow for anything else." He set the brush down, took a vial from the pocket of his robes, and placed it on the vanity table, then unscrewed the top and looked at her. "I never threw out the hairs, so we still have a variety from which to select. And think of it—they're all so much older now, but when I polyjuice into one of the blokes, I'll be the age he was twenty or more years ago when I nicked his hair!"

Her brow dipped in a frown. "Expecting me to have relations with other men so you can gauge my reaction is not normal," she stated flatly. "If it were possible, would you honestly like to see me shagging other men while you watch?"

"Of course not, that's despicable," he said sharply. "I'm doing this for you as much as for myself."

"How so?"

"You get to see what it's like to play the field. When it's my turn, I can do the same, and we're not hurting anyone in the process. Now choose or I'll choose for you. Personally, I rather liked the gardener; plain fellow, but he's got an enormous co—"

"Alright!" she snarled, slamming a hand on the table. He wasn't joking and she knew it, so it would behoove her to pick the man she held least objectionable. She certainly didn't want to end up coerced into sex with a seventy-year-old wizard from Austria again, or that awful, hairy bloke with a voluminous beard. "_Accio_ hair from the Italian businessman." A few moments later, four dark brown hairs sailed into the room, hovered beside her, and she plucked them from the air. "Here. And I'm not going to polyjuice for you tonight!"

"I didn't want you to," he said in all sincerity. It excited him more to watch her as he humped her in the guise of another man than it did to make her become another woman.

Taking one of the hairs, he dropped it into the vial of thick, gloppy liquid and took a gulp. It made him gag and retch, though his features started to change almost instantly, his skin darkening, his hair becoming dark and curly, his eyes turning brown, his stature shortening. When at last the change was complete, he smiled at her, flashing straight, white teeth.

"Good choice, Nicolette. You always did have an eye for the handsome ones," he said in a voice slightly higher than his own. "Now, let's stop sulking and have a drink or two. _Accio_ wine!" A bottle flew from his room, down the hall, and into her bedroom. He caught it by the neck and uncorked it in one practiced motion. Taking a swig right from the container, he handed it to her. "Come on, love, let's have some fun. Once you loosen up, you'll like it the way you used to…"

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

**1 March 1948**

The first thing Abraxas thought when his stomach had stopped lurching from the series of apparitions to get him back to Britain was, _'Damn, it's cold!'_ A few minutes later, once his stomach had settled and he felt strong enough to move, he was grumbling in his mind over the dampness and chill that sank into his bones like a squatter in an abandoned building. He ought to have worn a heavier cloak.

Getting his bearings, he glanced around Charing Cross Road near the entry to Diagon Alley. No one appeared to have noticed him, though he had put a strong disillusionment charm upon himself before apparating. Likely they didn't see him at all. He stepped into the lane by the record shop which was adjacent to the Leaky Cauldron, took off the charm, and walked out as if it were an everyday occurrence for a Malfoy to be strolling in dank alleyways.

He paused in front of the Leaky Cauldron, glanced about again, and went inside. Ignoring the grubby-looking patrons, and giving a polite nod to Tom the bartender, he headed out the back way into the courtyard, where he rapidly tapped the brick wall with his wand to gain access to the wizarding section. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, he strode down the street; he couldn't bring himself to duck his head like a common criminal in hiding, and had to hope no one stopped him to chat. All he needed was for his parents to find out he was home before he was ready to tell them so!

Ahead lay the snowy white building he was headed for, Gringotts, its burnished bronze doors gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Suppressing a grimace at the swarthy goblin stationed at the door, he calmly walked up the steps and into the bank. He detested goblins on principal, filthy, sneaky things that they were, but they were necessary and as such he had to make nice with them. He passed the silver doors where another pair of goblins stood guard, into the vast marble hall. Scores of goblins sat on high stools working at various tasks; he looked about for one who seemed less busy.

He approached the closest desk and waited to be acknowledged. The goblin stood up on the rungs of his stool, looking down over the counter at him. "May I help you, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Yes, I need to access my vault…unless you can do this for me," Abraxas drawled, hating how he sounded like his father. Nonetheless, underlings tended to work better when they heard the air of superiority in one's voice. Whether he liked it or not, he was best served to sound exactly as he did.

"Do what, Mr. Malfoy?"

Abraxas held up a gold key he'd been keeping in his vest pocket. "This is the key to my private vault—not the family vault." The one that had been his mother's before she wed his father, her own personal dowry that she'd brought into the marriage and had subsequently gifted to her son when he came of age. "I'd like to open a new vault and transfer some of the funds."

"That is no problem at all," said the gobbling, scratching down something with his quill. "How much will you be transferring to the new vault?"

"Five hundred thousand galleons." It amused him that the goblin didn't so much as blink an eye over the amount, though to be fair he was used to dealing with huge amounts every day. Still, the greediness of goblins was legendary, he'd expected a raised brow or a nervous tic or something…

The goblin dutifully wrote down the amount, filled in a few more lines, then pushed the parchment across the counter to him. "Read this over, fill in the blanks, and sign, please."

Abraxas read the contract, all very basic and standard, including permission for the goblins to touch his gold in the course of completing their task; he filled in the open spots, then signed his name with a flourish. "When can I anticipate having this done? May I wait here and get a receipt?"

"Of course. I'll send someone to do it now." The goblin motioned over one of his fellows, grumbled something in Gobbledygook, handed him the key, and the other goblin tramped off out one of the many doors from the long, long hallway. "You can wait over there, if you like." He pointed with a long, gnarled dark finger to a row of marble benches in the middle of the room.

Because he had nowhere else to be, and because it was important to have this done now, Abraxas went to sit on one of the benches. It was cold. He got up, sent a warming charm onto it, then seated himself again. He busied himself with noticing the customers entering and leaving, catching spots of conversation, watching the goblins work. Half an hour later he spied—he thought, since they all rather looked alike—the goblin who'd been sent to his vault. The creature went to the very desk he'd been at, gave something to the goblin on the stool, then slouched off again. On the edge of his seat, he waited for the goblin to call him, and he wasn't disappointed.

"Mr. Malfoy, here is your vault key." He plunked the gold object into Abraxas' hand. "Here is the one to your new vault." He plunked down another skeleton key, a smaller version of the one Abraxas already held. "And here is your receipt showing that 500,000 galleons has been transferred into the new vault under the specified name, leaving 736,564 galleons in your original vault. Is there anything else we can assist you with?"

"No, you've been most helpful," said Abraxas honestly. "Thank you."

"And thank you for your patronage, sir."

_My patronage, indeed_, Abraxas thought, feeling slightly giddy as he exited the bank. The Malfoys banked more than the majority of customers put together, their annual fees alone paid many of the workers here. He knew for a fact that his father had many millions of galleons, in all probability tens of millions, in the family vault.

Oh, he'd forgotten something in his haste to go; turning back, he asked the guard at the outer door, "Do you have owls available for customer use?"

"Yes, we do," said the guard in a thick accent unlike the goblin at the counter. He pointed straight back. "Go about halfway down and turn left. There is an owlery there."

Abraxas hurried back into the bank and to the location he'd been directed to, and sure enough there were dozens of owls on perches, hooting and flapping their wings. Next to the owlery was a marble table along the wall where parchment, quills, and ink were set out for customers. Thinking briefly about what to say, he wrote:

_Dear Frank,_

_I am here now—that is to say, I haven't yet gone home, I had a mission to accomplish first. I need a favour from you. Attached you will find a key to a vault at Gringotts. You don't need to do anything except keep it for me till I get back to Africa. If I don't make it back, please give it to Thalia and explain to her where it came from. Thank you, my friend._

_Abraxas_

He selected an owl that looked to be strong, for it had a long way to go. After using a sticking charm to make sure the key wouldn't fall from the parchment, he tied it to the bird's leg, carried it to the window, gave it instructions on where to go, and set it free. He watched it until it was gone from view, then turned to go. No, he ought to get this other letter written now, while he was still able. Taking a deep breath, he placed another sheet of parchment in front of him on the table and wrote:

_Dear Eileen,_

_I've been given a few days off, and I am home now. Although I realize this is short notice, may I meet you for dinner tomorrow night, if at all possible? In fact, I'd like to have your parents there as well. Meet me at the Silver Sparrow at seven o'clock. I'll make all the arrangements. Thank you._

_Abraxas_

He read over the letter, scowling slightly. It didn't sound very loving to him, but what if she took it the wrong way, like she did everything else? He'd much prefer to do this nasty business in private, but the rules were very clear—breaking a betrothal had to be public so that those involved couldn't twist the facts to their own liking. Witnesses must be available. Merlin's beard, he hated this! And now he had to go to the Silver Sparrow to make the arrangements as promised…then for the hardest part: going home to contend with his father.

(A/N: According to the online Wizarding World Currency Converter: 500,000 galleons equals 2,500,000 pounds or 5,035,000 dollars.)

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

When Abraxas first walked into the manor, it seemed alien to him—huge, cold, frighteningly clean and orderly. He let himself become accustomed to the feel and smell, closing his eyes and remembering. Had those eight months away made such a difference? Then he recalled how he'd undergone similar emotions every time he'd come home from Hogwarts or Durmstrang after months of absence. It would take only a short time to become used to the old home, the old routine again. A pained expression flitted through his face; that old routine involved dealing with Father, and usually that _didn't_ involve what he held in the pocket of his trousers. This homecoming was not going to be pleasant…but then, had he any experience with one that _had_ been pleasant?

"Fancy," he said in a quiet tone so as not to draw attention.

The elf popped in beside him, looked him up and down in wonder, then leapt at him and clung to his leg, squealing with joy. Abraxas patted her head around her ringlet of flowers, not saying anything just yet. There was no need, for the creature had begun chattering away excitedly. He caught snippets of past events, of Mother and Father, and something that stirred a bit of curiosity—she mentioned a new house elf named Dobby. He didn't recall his parents wanting another elf, but whatever. Fancy was in the middle of ranting about Dobby being strange and disagreeable, and wanting to be free—it wasn't making any sense. He chalked it up to her jealousy. She'd been the sole elf for a long time, and in all probability resented sharing her duties. Dobby was probably the same as any other house elf.

"Fancy fetches Master Malfoy and Mistress?" asked Fancy, gawking up at him and breaking into his thoughts.

"Yes….yes, please let them know I'm here. I'll be in the main sitting area." So saying, he meandered in and stared at the sofa, wondering if he ought to sit down. It would be pointless, would it not, once the discussion got started? Instead he decided to stand next to the fireplace, idly glancing about the room, acclimating himself.

In short order Nicolette raced in, exclaimed loudly, and threw herself at her son. He embraced her in his strong arms, kissing her cheeks and murmuring words of love. As she pulled away, he noted that her lips seemed a bit bruised, and she bore what looked like red splotches low down on her neck—were those hickeys? Or had Father been doing something evil to her again? Then again, the idea of his parents engaging in activities to give her hickeys felt vile and made him want to wash out his brain.

"Abraxas, my darling son! You've finally come home!" She hugged him tight again, stroking his pale hair that had grown from the military cut to curl round his ears and collar.

"Mother, I've come to visit," he corrected quickly. "I'm only here for a few days." He hadn't time to say any more, for just then his father made his entrance. Abraxas' heart sped up and thudded like a kettle drum in his chest.

"So, the prodigal son returns," drawled Horatio, strolling in, smirking. "I thought you'd come sooner, though I ought to have suspected you'd be too stubborn to break until you couldn't take it any more. I knew you hadn't the mettle to withstand it the entire time."

"Take what?" asked Nicolette, looking from one man to the other. "Is Africa that bad?"

"No, ma'am," Abraxas answered, his eyes focused on his sire.

He slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and withdrew the pain device, holding it up for all to see; some of its spindly filaments had broken off, leaving it to look like a grotesque, mutilated spider. Nicolette gasped and drew back, thinking it to be some sort of animal. Horatio's face, on the other hand, contorted in confusion that rapidly turned to rage.

"Father made a special visit to implant this on my back to torture me weekly for disobeying him," said the young man, throwing it onto the floor at his father's feet. It skidded to a halt right in front of the patriarch and lay there, all eyes on it. In the space of a heartbeat Abraxas' wand was out, aimed, and the device exploded into a hundred fragments, some of them flying upward and striking Horatio painfully in the legs. A single larger piece flew up and sliced into his temple, drawing blood.

Nicolette screamed, Horatio roared, and Abraxas ducked as his father's fist swung at his head.

"You impudent son of a bitch!" bellowed Horatio, holding a hand to the wound streaming blood onto his robes. "You'll pay for that!"

"I imagine so," said Abraxas softly, backing up. "In the meantime, perhaps you should have that looked at. Wouldn't want it to scar, would we?" He turned to go, paused, and added, "Tomorrow evening I have a dinner date with Eileen and her parents. It would be in the best interests of the family name not to maul me too badly till afterward. Vivid bruises and welts are hard to explain satisfactorily."

With that he left the room and walked up the staircase to his room, his legs like jelly but his head held high. His heart still beat wildly, a simultaneous sense of elation and horror gripping him. He'd fought back, if only in a small way, and it was exhilarating. On the other hand, he'd surely pay dearly later, once Father had his wounds tended to…although, once Father heard of the dissolved betrothal, this incident would pale in comparison. He may even forget to retaliate for it. One could always hope.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

**2 March 1948**

He looked at his pocket watch again, snapping it open to check the time. They should be here any minute. Abraxas got up from the table he'd had set up on the balcony at the Silver Sparrow, mainly because it was the most private spot available, and started to pace. Technically it was too cold out for dining here, and he'd had to pay for warming charms to be renewed every little while along with the rest of the bill, which he'd settled ahead of time. He felt certain no one was going to be in the mood for settling later.

Right at seven o'clock he spied George and Marie Prince speaking with one of the waiters, then they headed in his direction and he saw Eileen alongside them, grinning madly. Why did she have to look so bloody happy? Abraxas walked into the body of the restaurant to greet them.

"Mr. Prince, Mrs. Prince, how lovely to see you again," he said, giving a slight bow as he kissed the witch's hand and shook the wizard's. Forcing himself to play his part, he took Eileen's hand and kissed it gently as he said, "Eileen, I'm glad you could make it. I'm sorry to pull you away from school."

"I don't mind at all," she answered, giving a little laugh. "How long are you going to be home?"

"I'm—I'm honestly not sure. Perhaps a few days more." He gestured toward the balcony. "Please, come and sit."

He pulled out Eileen's chair for her at the same time George pulled out the chair for his wife, and they all sat down. The waiters brought in a bottle of wine, which was poured for the adults, and followed soon by the food—he truthfully couldn't have told what he ate, aside from the bit of roast duck that stuck in his throat when George proposed a toast to the happy couple, making him choke until Marie pounded on his back to free it. In his mind his thoughts whirled, making it hard to concentrate on what they were saying as they ate and made pleasant conversation, asking him about Africa and his adventures, feeling compelled to ask about Eileen's studies and activities on the Gobstone team. He'd rather not talk about any of it, but the least he could do was give the poor girl a decent meal before breaking her heart. He felt like a complete and utter heel, a knave of the highest order.

At last, when the waiters came to remove the dessert plates and bring coffee and tea, he laid a hand on the head waiter's arm and said quietly, "All of you stay. I need to say something, and I require witnesses."

The Prince couple glanced up sharply at that. Eileen alone seemed oblivious to the significance.

Abraxas faced the girl, swallowing so hard he thought everyone must have heard it. "Eileen, you're a very nice person, and I like you…which makes this much harder to do." He paused, not daring a glimpse at the Prince couple. "I like you, but I don't love you."

Eileen looked confused, and turned to her mother, then back to Abraxas. "What do you mean?"

"Love will come in time, Abraxas," said Marie. "There's no need to worry about that."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Prince, but it won't." _Oh, God, why did he have to do this to her? _ "Eileen, you don't deserve this, and if there was any other way to do it, I would. I'm in love with someone else, and I am publicly and officially breaking our betrothal."

The head waiter gasped in dismay at the same time George slammed a fist on the table and exclaimed something best not repeated. The other two waiters gaped stupidly, aware that this was a big deal and surprised to be part of it. Marie lurched backward as if struck, and Eileen jumped up shrieking, ""You can't mean that! I know you can't! It's your horrible father, isn't it? He's making you do this!"

"My father has nothing to do with it," he said softly. "I am so sorry, Eileen. You'll surely find a suitable match closer to your own age, and—"

"How could you do this to me? You acted like you loved me, then you go and get some other girl!" she shrieked. People in the restaurant proper turned to look at the group on the balcony. "You send me beautiful, thoughtful gifts, then change your mind like that!" She snapped her fingers in his face. "I hate you!"

"Please, I never wanted to hurt you, but—"

It was obvious she wasn't listening as she burst into tears and laid her head on her arms on the table. He got up, meaning to touch her shoulder, but George Prince snatched his arm and shoved him roughly away.

Drawing his wand from his pocket, he snarled, "You cheating little two-faced bastard, get out of my sight before I hex you to kingdom come!"

Abraxas put up his hands in a show of surrender, letting him know he didn't intend to fight. "I am sorry, Mr. Prince. If we hadn't been engaged so young, this never would have come to pass. I never wanted to hurt Eileen."

"Get away from her! Just leave!" shrilled Marie Prince.

Aware of every eye in the restaurant locked on him, Abraxas walked stiffly through the throng and out the door. He felt a vague sense of closure, his task had been completed…and yet he'd never felt so rotten at the same time. Assuming he were ever welcome at the restaurant again, he'd have to come incognito. As he walked the dark, chilly street thinking, he tried to conjure up a positive image of Thalia, but the sight of Eileen crouched over the table weeping was too strong.

Sighing, he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. He may as well go home. He'd done what he came to do, he'd broken the child's heart. Pretty soon the Princes would be banging down the doors of Malfoy Manor demanding that their son take back his dissolution of the betrothal; it would be better for his parents to hear it from him, rather then from the Princes—or worse, the newspaper. He'd paid his bill at the restaurant…now he must go home and pay the piper.


	17. Chapter 17

11

Father, My Father—Chapter 17

**2 March 1948**

_Oh, God there they are_. Abraxas' heart, already racing, skipped a few beats as he tried desperately to calm himself, to breathe. Just breathe. He'd get through this, one way or another, he always did. He stood nervously by the fireplace waiting for his parents to fully enter the sitting room, both wearing bemused expressions, and gestured for them to sit. His mother seated herself on the sofa, his father stood exactly where he was, casting impatient glowers.

"Well, what is it? We were about to be busy," Horatio snapped.

Abraxas didn't even want to know what that meant. "Mother, Father, I have some news." He turned slightly away and gulped. _Think of Thalia._ That gave him the strength to turn back and say, "I may as well come out and say it. Tonight I broke my betrothal with Eileen."

A stunned silence followed. The clock on the mantle ticked eerily loudly.

At last, Nicolette ventured, "That's not funny, Abraxas."

"I'm not joking," he replied. "I don't want to marry her, and I'm not going to."

"What the hell has gotten into you?" said Horatio.

At the same time Nicolette said, "Has she done something wrong?"

"No. No," said Abraxas, shaking his head wearily. "She hasn't done anything, if you have to blame someone, it's my fault."

"And that surprises who?" asked Horatio, lip curled in a savage sneer. He let out a short, barking laugh. "Enough of this nonsense! You are betrothed to Eileen Prince, and you will wed her when the time comes. Now haul your arse to her house and beg her forgiveness."

"No."

Horatio took a step in his direction, and Abraxas steeled himself. "Boy, I'm not in the mood for your bullshit or your insolence. You made a commitment, and you will honour it!"

"No!" shouted Abraxas, lurching aside in time to avoid the backhand that grazed his cheek. "_You_ made that commitment and forced me to play a part in it!" He scrambled across the room.

"Abraxas, please, you're being selfish and silly," Nicolette broke in, rising from the sofa. "You can't go around breaking a betrothal on a whim! Eileen will be scandalized, both our families will be disgraced! Don't you even care?"

"Didn't I say the boy is too obstinate for his own good?" intoned Horatio. "He finally grows a backbone, and he uses it to cause shame on us."

"Unlike my father, who implants torture devices in my spine," Abraxas muttered. "No shame there, right?"

Horatio strode over to his son, who had backed up against the wall and had nowhere to go. One hand whaled hard across his cheek, snapping his head to the side and leaving a bright red print on his pale skin. A backhand whacked his head against the wall. "You will speak with respect to me and to your mother! I've had enough of this. We are your parents, you owe us obedience. You will acquiesce to our wishes, is that understood?"

"No, I won't," answered Abraxas defiantly.

"Abraxas, stop this!" shrieked his mother, running toward him, to be pushed away by Horatio. "Please, you're just making your father angry. Go to bed and get some rest, then in the morning when you're thinking clearly you can make things right."

"Mother, you don't understand," Abraxas said calmly. She looked on the verge of tears, he didn't want to be responsible for that. "I don't love Eileen, I never will, and I will not marry her."

"Love be damned, you'll do as you're told!" Horatio snarled, grabbing him by the lapels of his robes.

He apparated to the dungeon with his son, then snatched Abraxas' wand from the pocket of his robe before flinging him to the floor, scraping his knees and ripping his trousers. In an instant his own wand was out, pointed at Abraxas. A mere flick ripped the youth's shirt off; another turned him around and sent him careening toward the wall, where the new elf was polishing the manacles secured there. Dobby scurried out of the way as the metal shackles closed round the boy's wrists with a loud snap, leaving him hanging with his toes barely touching the ground, his face mashed against the stones.

"Dobby, go upstairs," ordered Horatio. The elf hesitated, then disappeared. Horatio heaved a disgruntled sigh. "Why do you make me do this? You love to blame me for your punishment, but you bring it on yourself. You think I don't have other things I'd rather be doing? But no, in your self-centered fashion you insist on having things your way, when you should know by now that you can't win."

"Self-centered?" echoed Abraxas in consternation. "This is _my_ life! You're the one trying to run it to make yourself look good! Who's really being self-centered?"

That earned him a whip-like curse across the back that sent searing pain both up and down at the same time, and left a long, fierce weal. "Your sass isn't helping. For supposedly being so intelligent, you can be extremely dim-witted."

A second whip-like curse crisscrossed over the first; Abraxas sucked in a sharp breath, his back arching. By the seventh lash, he could no longer hold in the cries, and he howled as the curse not only made another new weal, but reignited the pain in all those it touched. Not until number twenty, when he was actively begging his father to stop between screams, did it end. He hung there, exhausted and bleeding, back flaming with agony, the skin of his wrists torn by the shackles, arms feeling like they were being pulled from their sockets, which slowly they were.

Horatio stopped, surveying the damage. Not bad, by now the brat typically was willing to capitulate. "Are we done? Are you going to apologize to Eileen, reestablish the betrothal, and behave suitably?"

_Say yes. Say yes and he'll let you go…maybe. Then again, he may leave you here to teach you a lesson. Just say yes._ Thalia's face swam before his eyes. He could admit defeat, then as soon as he was let down go running back to Africa…and then Father would send another bounty hunter after him. No, it had to end now.

Tears mingling with sweat on his cheeks, he said roughly, "No. I won't."

"What the f—k is wrong with you!" Horatio screeched, sending the Cruciatus at him. His body jerked upright and began to thrash as he screamed piteously. After several seconds, Horatio halted, panting angrily. "You're really starting to piss me off, son!"

"You're not exactly endearing yourself to me," Abraxas murmured, wondering even as he did so what the f—k _was_ wrong with him. Wasn't this torture enough, did he have to invite more?

Another curse slammed into him, crushing him to the wall from the force of it, skinning his nose and cheek and making him see stars. Another Cruciatus followed. Half an hour of various curses later, no closer to his objective, Horatio stomped up the stairs, leaving his son to hang there. Perhaps by morning he'd see things in a new light. If not, there was more where that had come from.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

**3 March 1948**

Day broke. Faint light shone through the small windows high up on one wall. Unable to move without indescribable pain, still hung from the manacles round his wrists, Abraxas watched the sun's progress as the day wore on, wondering why Father hadn't come back. He was thirsty, so very thirsty, and he had to use the toilet. He wouldn't object to being let free, either, though he realized if Father came back it would likely be for more 'lessons'.

Afternoon was well under way when Horatio finally made an appearance, and he didn't look happy. He strode up to the young man, cranking his head back by his hair, eliciting a yelp at the touch, the movement. His hot breath sprayed into Abraxas' face as he growled, "The Princes were just here, son. They were highly agitated. Can you guess what they wanted?"

"Yes, sir," Abraxas whispered.

"And?"

"And I'm sorry, but I can't do it."

Horatio rammed his son's head into the wall with a crack, opening another wound. "Wrong answer. I assured them that I'd make you see reason, I'd get you to cooperate. You're not going to make me out a liar, Abraxas." He stepped to the side where his son could see him better. "The scandal is all over the front page of the _Daily Prophet,_ along with a very juicy tidbit of information that the Princes verified. They said you claim to be in love with another woman." He studied his son as he spoke, noting the sudden flicker in the eyes, the intake of breath. "I see it's true. Who is she? Who is this whore that you'd throw away your name and honour for?"

"She's not a whore!" Abraxas spat through clenched teeth.

"Really?" Horatio circled him, leering. "What kind of witch pounces on a betrothed man, forces him to renounce his vow? Or is she a witch at all? Is she one of those muggle scum you're playing with in Africa?"

"She's as pureblood as you are!" Abraxas shouted, forgetting his agony for the moment. "And I pursued her, not the other way around!"

"Well," said Horatio, stepping away, out of his line of vision, his voice low and level. "I have to assume you met her in Africa, or you'd not have made a special trip now to break off the engagement. You'd have done it before you left if the girl was here. However, there is one way to cure you of this insanity—keep you here. If you don't see her, you'll forget about her."

"No!" Abraxas shrieked, struggling with the shackles and getting renewed blood flow down his arms for his trouble. "You promised me, Father! You promised you'd let me finish my training. You never break your word."

"Unlike my son, apparently," retorted Horatio. "All you have to do is obey me, and I'll let you go. Why do you resist?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Why is that, pray tell?"

"Because you don't understand what love is," Abraxas ground out, lowering his head. "Go on, beat me some more, curse me some more. I don't care. You can't leave me here forever, so you'll either have to kill me or let me go. I will never agree to marry Eileen."

"You're such a fool," Horatio shot back, slapping him for good measure. "You're willing to give up your good name, to instigate all manner of mockery toward our family and Eileen's, all for the sake of this tart who probably doesn't give a rat's arse about you. Or worse, she's after you for your money."

"She loves me, something you can't comprehend," Abraxas responded evenly. "Maybe you can understand this: Even if you force me to wed Eileen, you can't force me to consummate the marriage. If you want the Malfoy line to continue, I need an heir, which you'll never get if you let me die or refuse to let me marry the woman I love."

"Bold words, son. Let's see how you feel after hanging here another day or two."

"Let me hang here till I rot, it won't change anything, except you'd be directly responsible for the demise of the Malfoy line." With that he clamped his mouth shut, grimacing against the pain throbbing all over him.

"We'll see."

Horatio turned to go, then stopped, took out his wand, and paused. He'd tried using the Imperius curse on two individuals over the years, both without success. Sadly, it wasn't his forte. Abraxas was strong-willed to start, thus an unlikely candidate. No, physical pain had always done the trick in the past…and yet, perhaps he should try a different variation of torment. A mental one. This curse would run its course in a few hours, and by that time the boy would in all probability be begging to marry Eileen just to make it stop.

"_Deviso ubils in imynd_."

He walked up the stairs humming, with the sound of his son shrieking in the background.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

**4 March 1948**

Frank finished examining the tiny gold key, then tossed it onto his bunk as he rolled the parchment over in his hands, hoping for something more. Nope, that was it. A letter requesting he guard this key until Abraxas came back to retrieve it. His stomach leapt up into his heart, making it skip a beat. It was undoubtedly sent days ago, and whilst Abraxas may have been fine at that time, he hadn't yet broken the betrothal—something that by now had surely happened. Was he alright? Was he coming back? Would he be physically capable of returning?

He slumped down on the cot, picking up the key absently, rubbing it between his fingers. He'd owled his father as soon as he knew Abraxas was intent on going home…had his father received notice in time to check on the youth before it was too late? Frank swore under his breath. He ought to have insisted on going with him, surely Doctor Hodgins would have agreed to modify his studies as well to allow him his degree. If only Abraxas weren't so bloody stubborn!

"Frank? Are you in there?"

"Yeah, Thalia, come on in." Frank slid the key under his pillow and looked up as she entered.

"Hi," she said, glancing at the empty cot across the narrow aisle in the tent. She stepped over and sat down gingerly; her hand stroked his blanket and pillow lightly. A faint aroma of her beloved swept over her, choking her up for a moment. "Um, Frank, have you heard from Brax? I haven't."

"No," he answered, his palm still warm from the key. If Abraxas had wanted her to know, he'd have said so, but he'd asked Frank to wait. As much as he hated lying to her, Malfoy must have his reasons—and besides, this scarcely even counted as correspondence, right? It was a request, not a real letter. He followed up quickly with, "You have to remember that what he's gone to do isn't an easy thing, it takes time to…do." A lame finish, but at least he tried.

"How long can it take to declare you want to end a betrothal?" she asked, irritation creeping into her voice. "Brax said there was no love involved, I don't understand—"

"He said that?" Frank interrupted, cocking his head.

Her head jerked up to meet his gaze. "Yes," she said slowly, her hand gripping the blanket. "Is that a lie?" Even saying the words made her feel faint.

"No—not on his part," Frank replied, silently cursing Malfoy. Sure, he'd been honest about his own feelings, only that idiot hadn't told Thalia about Eileen's sentiments! Had he lied or had he simply omitted that sad fact? "What exactly did he say?"

"He said it was an arranged marriage. I asked him if he loved her, and he said no," she responded, wide-eyed, evidently shaken. "Why?"

This time when Frank swore, barely loud enough for the young lady to hear, Thalia's eyes grew wider at the ferocity, the nastiness of the words. "Sorry, he should have warned you. Eileen—the girl he's engaged to—is smitten with him, to say the least. He's told me about letters she's written, and how awful he feels knowing she cares for him." He assiduously avoided using the L-word just now. Besides, Eileen was a child, what did she know about real love? "She's not likely to let it go without a fight. Nor her parents, from what I understand."

"Why didn't he tell me?"

"I guess he didn't want to worry you," said Frank, shrugging. He grimaced, wishing he didn't have to say this, but it needed to be said. "Now that it's out in the open, I may as well tell you. He's going to be branded a cad or worse, and you're going to be vilified right along with him when you show up at his side. People will try to blame you for breaking up the couple. I suggest you prepare for it, there'll be no evading it."

"Why blame me?" Thalia exclaimed. She was about to protest that she had nothing to do with breaking up Abraxas and Eileen, but that wasn't strictly true, was it? If it weren't for her, Brax would do his duty and marry the little girl—but that wasn't _her_ fault! The whole situation was sickening and wrong, and someone ought to stand up against it. "How do I prepare for something like that?"

"Beats me," he said, shrugging again. "Just thought I'd warn you ahead of time."

"Well…thanks, I guess," she said softly, getting up. "Tell me if you hear from him, won't you?"

Frank merely smiled in return, not willing to add one lie to another. If Abraxas wrote a proper letter, he'd let her know. He thought it far more likely that Abraxas would write to his beloved—or simply show up one day…or not. Or he'd get a letter from his father, detailing something horrible.

Sighing, he lay down and tried to clear his mind. "Malfoy, you're driving me crazy."

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

**4 March 1948**

"Dobby?" murmured Abraxas, his throat raw from intermittent screaming and weeping for the past two days, his arms and hands numb from hanging in this position, his shoulders and back shrieking their agony. At least the horrible mental images his father had implanted of Thalia being violently murdered had ceased, though they'd not been forgotten. "Dobby?"

The elf skulked from behind a pillar, where he'd been observing his master. "Yes, Master Abraxas?"

The youth struggled to turn his head to get a full view of the elf, whom he glimpsed only from the corner of his eye. It was getting dark in the cellar again—well, darker. The high windows along the wall no longer shed light, meaning dusk had fallen. He'd been here all day without his father even coming down to bully or torture him…which meant he probably intended to leave him for another two days, until he was sure the boy was ready to crack. He'd done this often enough to gauge his son's reactions.

"Dobby, help me," he pleaded, his voice coming out in a choked sob. He couldn't do this, he couldn't stand up against his father for another day without breaking, no matter how much bravado or good intention he had. Already he felt certain he'd lose a limb if this continued much longer. If he had to endure another round of Thalia-deaths, he'd go insane.

Twisting his pointed ears, pacing and moaning piteously, Dobby replied, "Dobby wants to free Master Abraxas, Dobby does, but Dobby mustn't. Master Malfoy says—" He fell to the floor to pound his skull on the hard stones.

"Go find Dr. Cullin, his office is in London, in the wizarding section. Tell him what's happening," whispered Abraxas. He felt himself losing consciousness, he must not allow that to occur! He'd die, he was sure of it.

"Dobby—mustn't—disobey—Master Malfoy!" wailed the elf, slamming his head all the harder, punctuating the words with the sound of his skull thumping on the ground.

"Stop it!" commanded Abraxas, and Dobby instantly stopped. "Father never said you couldn't talk to Dr. Cullin, did he?"

Dobby cocked his head and blinked slowly several times, his bulbous eyes staring vacantly as he thought. "No. Master doesn't say so!" Immediately he disapparated, leaving Abraxas hanging to a thread of hope.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

"Mr. Malfoy, I'd like to see your son, please." Dr. Cullin stood firm at the door to the manor, steady-eyed, waiting.

Horatio stared at him curiously. Had Cullin actually come to _his_ house making demands about _his_ family? The gall of some people! Casually he took a deep breath, notably not inviting him in, realizing that the doctor would recognize the snub for what it was. "I think not. He's otherwise engaged." He smirked to himself at the play on words. Like it or not, if he had anything to say about it, Abraxas would come out of this situation properly engaged to Eileen.

The doctor didn't budge. "Either bring him to me, or I'll apparate away and call the aurors. I'll tell them you murdered him."

"And wouldn't you look the fool when they arrived to find him alive?" asked Horatio mockingly.

"Perhaps," conceded Dr. Cullin, suppressing his own grim smile, "But they'd be forced to investigate an allegation of that magnitude. Finding your son half dead, strung up in the dungeon, wouldn't reflect well on you, now would it? Haven't you had enough shame and scandal on the family for one week?"

The tiny lines around Horatio's eyes intensified as his eyes narrowed to slits of hatred. "You think you can blackmail me?"

"Quite honestly, yes. I do." He crossed his arms and cleared his throat impatiently. "I'll wait exactly two more minutes. If your son isn't out here on the porch with me, I will have no recourse but to notify the authorities."

"And what do you plan to do with my son, _Doctor_ Cullin?" asked Horatio, sneering.

"Heal him of whatever beastly punishments you've devised this time, then let him decide what he wants to do from there," responded the doctor, tight lipped. "I can only hope he chooses never to look at your face again, or to cross your doorstep again."

"Good luck with that," said Horatio, laughing openly. "He knows which side his bread is buttered on." Nonetheless, he turned to shout into the foyer, "Fancy! Bring Abraxas to the _doctor_." To Dr. Cullin he added snidely, "In the future you may find it prudent to keep your nose out of other people's business. I'll let you take Abraxas now because he needs fixing up and I'm not qualified for that. When he's coherent, tell him we're not through."

Fancy popped in, dragging the body of her young master, who so weighted her down she could scarcely stand under him. Her skinny legs shuddered and quivered under his bulk, her twig-like arms unable to even encircle his waist. Blood dripped in slimy trickles from his bruised and mangled wrists; his head flopped to the side as though he were dead; gashes and blood, welts and purpled mottling covered his bare chest and back.

"There you go. Have fun. I expect him back within a few days, he's got a betrothal to mend," said Horatio, laughing in his face again.

"You're a sick bastard, Malfoy. You need help as badly as he does!" With that, Dr. Cullin gently took Abraxas in his arms like a child and apparated away.


	18. No More

10

Father, My Father—Chapter 18 (No More)

**7 March 1948**

As he headed for the door, Abraxas felt a tug on his arm, pulling him backward—not the violent, rough yanking he was accustomed to from his father, but a gentle, light contact that make him feel strange in the pit of his heart. From lack of experience with a kindly touch, he couldn't describe it, except to say it demanded to be acknowledged, it demanded…compliance. Not quite understanding why, he turned and sat down in the kitchen chair he'd vacated only moments ago.

"Yes, Dr. Cullin?"

The older wizard stood over him, looking down at him with something akin to pity, yet more akin to worry. He was dressed in his work robes, his medical bag set beside him on the table. "I was afraid you'd try this, running back home. It's taken me days to heal you, Abraxas, and you'll go right back to that sadist? You don't have to live like this!"

Abraxas ducked his head, shame washing over him. Dr. Cullin had rescued him from potential dismemberment or death, he'd tended to him throughout his recuperation not only this time, but other times as well…surely this seemed a slap in the face to run right back to the man who'd perpetrated the abuse.

"I'm sorry, sir. I know how it looks, but I have to do this."

"No, you don't." The doctor pulled out the chair next to him and sat down, leaning in toward Abraxas. His steady brown eyes pierced into the youth, pinning him to his spot. "You and Frank have been friends for years, you've come to be like another son to me. I'd never let Frank walk into what you're about to do; how can I let you?"

"Because if I don't, I'll never really be a man," answered Abraxas softly, wringing his hands together in nervous agitation. "I have to confront him, let him know he can't treat me this way anymore."

"And what if he curses you again, what if he harms you and I'm not able to help this time?"

For a long space Abraxas said nothing. He'd considered that, of course. It was possible, though not probable, because he had no intention of waltzing in unarmed. At Durmstrang he'd learned the hard way to defend himself with his wand; when it came to dueling, he wasn't easily defeated. While he'd prefer to forego this altercation entirely, it had to be done—should have been done long ago. It was meant to be words only, but if it came to a duel, he'd fight.

At last he said, "I need my wand. He's got it."

"And you think he'll just hand it over and wish you well, have a nice day?" exclaimed Dr. Cullin. "You humiliated the family, you refused to obey him, you—"

"I get it, I'm a horrible son," Abraxas murmured.

"No, you don't get it! You're a terrific son, he's a f—king lunatic!" Cullin growled. He pulled himself upright, straightening his robes. "Forgive my language, but it's true."

Suppressing a grin, Abraxas said, "I have an idea to get my wand. I honestly don't think he's keeping it secured anywhere, he took it only so I couldn't defend myself. It's almost certainly lying about somewhere, and all I need to do is _accio_ it. Once I've got it, I'm not helpless against him anymore."

"And if it isn't?"

"Then I'll go buy a new wand and _then_ face him." Not knowing what got into him, Abraxas laid a reassuring hand on the older man's arm; it wasn't something he'd have ever dared with Father. "Please trust me. I won't turn my back on him. I'm going to be bringing the woman I love here in a few months, I need to know she'll be safe."

Dr. Cullin cleared his throat. "What exactly are you planning to do, kill him?" Meant as a joke, the seriousness of it hung in the air. If Abraxas did murder his father, he couldn't blame him one iota.

Abraxas' lips twisted into a grim smile. "If I have to. I doubt it will go that far. Once I've laid out the facts for him, I believe he'll come to see things my way."

The tone of his voice, hard and pitiless, so like Horatio in that instant, made the doctor's blood run cold. "Don't do anything stupid, Abraxas. Don't throw your life away."

"I don't plan to, good doctor." He stood up, extending a hand to shake. "Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all you've done for me. I'll make you proud." For some reason, that was important to him, that the doctor be proud. Was this how a normal son felt about a father who actually cared about him?

"Should I wish you luck?" asked Dr. Cullin.

"It can't hurt. I'll come say goodbye before I leave for Africa." Abraxas made a small, respectful bow toward the man, and walked out the door.

He apparated to Malfoy Manor, then stood on the porch for several minutes as what he was about to do solidified in his mind. It must be done, and once done there was no going back. Ready or not, it was his responsibility to guard his intended from this monster, and he was not one to shirk his responsibilities—especially when they came in the form of Thalia. He'd move heaven and Earth for her…this was just piddling about in the dirt compared to what he'd do if necessary.

He opened the door just a touch and whispered, "_Accio_ my wand."

Then he waited. He'd always been able to do bits of wandless magic, like summoning charms, closing doors, and such…it should be coming to him any second now, and if it didn't, he best make himself scarce until he'd acquired a new wand. Waiting, waiting—ah, there it was! Had he not been watching so intently, it might have poked him in the eye, it was traveling so fast. He plucked it from the air in one smooth motion and tucked it into his vest pocket. Opening the door fully, he strode in to find Fancy hobbling in to greet him.

"Master Abraxas comes home, Master is well!" She threw herself at him, hugging him about the legs, rubbing her head on his knees, seemingly oblivious to her crown of flowers falling from her head.

"Yes, Fancy, I'm home," he said quietly.

Although preoccupied, he stroked her bald pate gently, lovingly. She'd been in his life ever since—well, always, his entire life. In fact, unless he was mistaken, Grandfather had mentioned that Fancy was an adult Malfoy elf when _he_ was a little boy. Abraxas glanced down at the elf, realization of her true age dawning on him. She had to be at least eighty, probably more. Until now he'd never thought of her as old, but now that he did, he allowed himself to recall her slight limp that had become more pronounced over the past few years, the way she seemed to tire more easily now. Was this why Mother had bought Dobby?

He shook off his musings. He had a job to do, he's best get to it. "Fancy, is Father here?"

The elf didn't answer right away, then she mumbled under her breath, "Yes, Master Abraxas." When he tried to walk, she clung to him. "Don't going to him, Master, please! He hurtsing you again! Fancy can't bears it, Fancy can't!"

Looking about to make sure he was still alone with her, he got down on one knee to be at her eye level. "I have to do this. Once it's done, he won't hurt me anymore. Okay?"

Her thin lips puckered sulkily, disbelieving. "Fancy can't bears it. Fancy loves Master Abraxas."

"I know," he said, patting her arms that had somehow snaked round him again. He tugged at the spindly limbs to free himself, then whispered in her enormous ear, "Master loves Fancy, too."

At that she broke into heartrending sobs that seemed out of place with the smile on her tear-streaked visage. Wizards didn't love house elves; even if they did have some sentiment towards them, wizards didn't _tell_ their elves that they loved them, but Master Abraxas had! Beautiful, perfect Master Abraxas, whom she loved as her own human baby, loved her! She tried to embrace him again but he stood up and held her at arm's length with his hand on her head.

"Fancy, go to the kitchen now. Master Abraxas has a task to complete."

Reluctantly she obeyed, sniffling all the way, leaving him alone in the foyer. Taking a deep breath, he headed to the one place he was likely to find Father at this time of day: his study. Without knocking, relying on the element of surprise, he thrust open the door.

Horatio looked up sharply from his desk, then his lips curved into a cruel smile. He rose slowly. "Well, well, imagine my surprise. Dr. Cullin sent you home after all; I honestly didn't think he would."

"He tried to talk me out of coming," Abraxas replied brusquely. "Don't move any further, Father. I'm not here for any more of your twisted games or perverse torture." When Horatio picked up his cane, Abraxas drew his wand, aiming it squarely at the other man's chest. "I said don't move."

"You wouldn't dare." So saying, Horatio wrenched his wand from the body of the walking stick and just as suddenly he flew backward into his chair, slamming it hard against the wall behind him with a loud, cracking thump. A silent _expelliarmus_ sent his wand sailing into Abraxas' grip. Furious and gobsmacked that his son had the audacity to use any sort of hex on him, even one so benign as to throw him into his seat, he merely stared in mingled shock and rage. Finally he choked out, "So you've come for revenge, is that it?"

"No, Father. If I came for vengeance, you'd be writhing and sobbing on the floor right now. I'm not you."

"Then what do you want, pointing your wand at your father like a common criminal!" snapped his sire.

Abraxas laughed mirthlessly. What he wanted? That list could go on for days. No, this was what he needed, what he insisted upon. "What I want is for you to grasp a few things, Father. First and foremost, I will no longer be treated the way you're accustomed to do. I will not submit to torture or beatings or anything else you may dream up in that warped mind of yours."

"Is that a fact?" said Horatio, and the way he said it sounded menacing, ominous.

"It is." Abraxas moved a couple of steps closer and shut the door with the heel of his foot, the wand remaining level. "Pureblood tradition, Malfoy tradition, states that a father commands his son's respect and duty as long as he lives. Had you ever been a real father to me, a decent father, I would continue to obey you out of respect and duty. But you haven't. You've abused and battered me all my life, and I put up with it. No more." He shook his head as he said those two words, his grey eyes daring the other wizard to disagree with anything he'd stated. "I won't embarrass the family or cause any more gossip; I'll continue to live here, I'll make a good show of respecting you when in public, but I will not allow you to use me like a dog any longer."

"Oh, is that all?" spat the elder.

"No, it isn't. I'm planning to be married soon—no, not to Eileen—and from now on you will treat me as a grown man, not a feral child. I expect you'll appear overjoyed at the wedding you'll be paying for, a huge public display for your only son. You will accept my wife as your daughter, and be kind to her. I don't give a damn how much you have to pretend to make that happen."

"Or what?" Horatio asked derisively, slamming a hand onto his desk in agitation. "If I tell you to shove your demands up your arse, what are you going to do about it?"

Abraxas smiled back coldly, mirroring the cruel expression of his father. A flash of light from his wand struck the older wizard's hand, effectively adhering it to the desk. As Horatio struggled futilely to free himself, Abraxas said, "Let me be perfectly clear so there is no misunderstanding. Over the years I've learned a good many ways to hurt people, and I learned most of them from you, often at the receiving end of your wand." He twirled his wand lazily in his fingers as he intoned, "_Deviso ubils in imynd_. How would you like to feel that curse, Father? It's highly unpleasant—horrific, in fact. Brings to mind your most terrible fears, playing them in your mind over and over and over. You see, even during torture sessions I learned from you. I believe you know quite well what I'm capable of. I am, after all, your son."

For the first time Abraxas saw a chink in the armour. Horatio's eyes flickered for only a second, but it was enough to announce he'd been heard loud and clear. If Horatio even suspected his son capable of the atrocities he committed himself, it was unlikely he'd try awakening that beast anytime soon. Time to press his advantage, let his sire comprehend what Abraxas could do if he put his mind to it.

Face set in a deadpan expression, Abraxas stopped twirling his wand and aimed it at his father. "Perhaps I ought to test it out. Let you know I'm not joking."

"Put that wand away!" snapped Horatio. He threw up his free hand in front of him, as if it might offer some protection. "I agree to your conditions, is that what you want?"

"Of course, but I still think you'd benefit from a dose of your own medicine. Of course the Cruciatus is a time-honoured tradition." He shook his head again, murmuring loud enough for Horatio to hear, "Yet there are so many to choose from, so much hurt I can cause. Do you have any preferences, Father?" He looked at Horatio, smiling blandly, maliciously.

By now a film of sweat had begun beading on Horatio's upper lip. While his son had defied him on occasion, he'd never known the boy to go this far, to be on the verge of not only fighting, but inflicting atrocious pain on another human being. At the moment he had his father at his mercy, unable to leave, unarmed. The look on Abraxas' face was…indifferent…frightening, if he had to categorize it. Like he simply did not care what he did to his father at this point. Had that last torture session finally pushed him over the edge, caused him to become mentally unstable? If so, it would be in Horatio's own best interests to humour the boy lest he lash out and wreak devastation on his own flesh and blood.

"I've agreed to your terms, haven't I? What more do you want from me?"

Abraxas sighed and backed up a step, not lowering the wand, his face set in a mask of cool detachment. A new thought had suddenly struck, and this was the perfect time to institute it. "I require a wizard's oath that you will never again harm me, nor will you harm my beloved, under pain of losing your magic and becoming a squib should you break your oath." He stood there, staring, blank-faced, waiting.

"If I refuse?"

Abraxas shrugged. "I was rather looking forward to being on the other side of torture for once, watching you sob and beg—you know, like you've done to me. Now is as good a time as any." The wand aimed directly at his sire's heart. "_Cruc—_"

"Alright!" Swearing under his breath, Horatio, nodded jerkily. When his son made no move to take his hand in the customary fashion, he muttered through clenched jaw, "I swear a wizard's oath that I will not harm my son again, nor harm his beloved." A swirling blue mist gathered round his head, running the length of his body as it whirled round him, and exited through his fingertips.

Abraxas rejoiced inside, though he dared not let the man see it. Best to appear as callous as he could manage. Now that Father gambled his very magic, the thing he cared for above all, it was unlikely he'd raise a hand or wand to his son or to Thalia. Still, he could be cruel in other ways, and if he got angry enough he might chance losing his magic to spite Abraxas. Or he might send someone else to hurt Thalia.

"Just one last thing, Father—and this is very important, so pay close attention: if you ever, _ever_ do anything to hurt the woman I love, through another person or even emotionally, I won't hesitate to kill you. And for the record, it would be a slow and agonizing death, I assure you."

With that he opened the door, backed out, and shut it behind him, leaving his father with his hand stuck to his desk. He walked quickly to the front door, dropped his father's wand on the floor, and stepped outside to apparate away. He had a doctor's visit to make, then back to Africa for training…and to see Thalia. It was a long trip, best get started.

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"You're back!" Thalia shrieked, her tone reminding Abraxas so much of Fancy that he laughed out loud as he bounded to her across the camp and scooped her into his arms, hugging her fiercely and kissing her face and neck repeatedly. "I was so worried, I thought…" She buried her face in his chest, squeezing tighter. "I'm so glad you're back."

"Not as glad as I am," he replied, kissing her again. He glanced around at the small group of people watching the show, including Frank. Flushing just a tad, he nodded to them as they clapped; he noted the look of utter relief on Frank's face. "Frank, can you tell Dr. Hodgins I'll be in to see her in a few minutes? She insisted I come see her as soon as I return."

"You're not—you're alright, I take it," Frank answered, eyeing him.

"Never better, thanks." Then, taking Thalia by the hand, he raced over the field to where he'd left his tent, the witch behind him running to keep pace, giggling as she went. He held the flap for her as she entered, then let it down after he came in. "Here, love."

From his robes he pulled a rolled up copy of the _Daily Prophet_, which he presented to her, then busied himself with digging about in his things as she looked at it. On the front page was a photo of the Malfoy family at a charity function, the three of them standing next to a man who was giving a speech, praising their generosity. Abraxas looked at the camera and smiled. Thalia melted. He was so handsome. Now she studied the witch and wizard with him, his parents: the woman was lovely, blond…her eyes were just like Brax's. The man was also quite good-looking, about the same height as his son, thicker set though by no means fat; Brax favoured him in some ways, but she doubted he'd like to hear that. She stroked a finger across the cheek of the photo-Brax.

"Darling, the headline," he prompted. "Did you read it?"

"What? Oh, sorry, I was looking at your picture. Very striking, the whole family."

He grinned. "Thanks." His own finger tapped at the paper.

She read aloud, "_'Malfoy Heir Terminates Betrothal: Families Scandalized'_. Oh, Brax, I'm sorry it's making you look bad, hurting your reputation and your family." Her brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a delicate bow.

He shrugged one shoulder. "I don't care. Soon all will be forgotten and our wedding will monopolize the headlines. _ 'Malfoy Heir Weds Beautiful, Mysterious Socialite'_. Speaking of which, I can't bear to wait another moment…" He got down on one knee, presenting the engagement ring to her as he said, "I have never loved another woman, nor will I ever love anyone but you. I need you, I want you, I will live for you—and die for you if necessary. Will you do me the great honour of becoming my wife, Thalia?"

Blushing, smiling so broadly her face felt like it would crack, she replied softly, "You know I will, Brax."

He slid the ring onto her trembling finger, got up, and hugged her again, planting kisses all over her face and neck before settling on her mouth. "Why are you crying, darling? I thought you'd be happy."

"I'm crying because I _am_ happy," she said, muffling her voice against him, then reaching up to kiss him again. "I love you so much."

"You'd better," he teased, laughing. God, how he loved her! At this second in time, despite the torture inflicted upon him, despite making Eileen sad, he couldn't regret what he'd done, not even a little bit. Without it he couldn't marry Thalia, and he'd sooner be dead than live without her.

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**10 March 1948**

_Dear Eileen,_

_Please read this before you throw it away. I know you're angry and hurt, you have every right to be. However, you know me, you know I'd never do anything to hurt you if I had any other option, but I love another woman. Would you have me marry you and pretend for the rest of my life? Neither of us would be happy then, would we?_

_I pray that one day you fall in love—real love, not what you thought you had with me. And I hope one day you can forgive me._

_Abraxas _

Eileen read the letter a second time, in the faint hopes that she'd missed something. But no, he was just making excuses, making himself feel better for dumping her, for shaming her, making her a laughingstock. Crying, she balled it up and threw it onto the floor. Not content with that, she picked it up and shredded it into tiny pieces, gathered them into her palm, and set them on the desk in her dormitory room. Tomorrow she'd show him what his letter meant to her when she returned it to him in its present condition. If he didn't care about her, she didn't care about him, either!

With that, she dropped onto her bed, but sleep didn't come easily. Not like it had when she felt secure and loved…she rolled over onto her side and sobbed into her pillow.


	19. Chapter 19

9

Father, My Father—Chapter 19

**12 March 1948**

"Isn't he dreamy?" one lass cooed, holding up a copy of the _Daily Prophet_, the one showing Abraxas smiling at the camera. "I wish he was mine."

"Don't you wish he was yours?" asked another girl to Eileen as she walked out of the Great Hall on her way back to the Slytherin common room. "Oh, wait—he was!" She burst out laughing cruelly, and the girls with her joined in.

Head down, Eileen pushed past them, tears stinging her eyes. Damned Gryffindorks! Why couldn't they just leave her in peace? This was none of their business or affair.

The girls kept pace with her all the way to the double doors, their laughter ringing in her ears. "What's the hurry, Prince? Don't you want to say how much you hate him? I know I would."

"What did you do to make him break the betrothal, Prince? Are you whoring around?"

Eileen rounded on them, wand drawn. "Leave me alone!"

"She won't do anything," another said dismissively. "Just like she didn't do anything to Malfoy when he dumped her like that."

"Maybe she won't, but I will," said a male voice from behind them.

The gang turned as one to see several Slytherins, boys and girls, all with wands drawn, faces hard.

The boy, a seventh year, spoke again. "Leave her alone or you'll be very sorry. You mess with one Slytherin, you mess with all of us."

The ringleader of the Gryffindors snorted lightly, though she did back off. "Big man when you're in a group, aren't you?"

"And you're not in a horde surrounding Eileen? I could swear I count five of you," he retorted. He took a step closer to her, sneering and hissing in contempt, "And for your information, little girl, I don't need any help to wipe the floor with you—several of you, for that matter." It was his turn to laugh, and his friends along with him.

The Gryffindors hoofed it down the hallway, leaving Eileen with the Slytherin bunch. Barely looking up, she said softly, "Thank you."

"You're a Slytherin, you're family," said one of the older witches matter-of-factly. "Come on, let's go back to the dormitory. Far too many Gryffindorks around for my liking."

Eileen followed the group back to the common room, then hurried to her own room. She wished she never had to leave—or better yet, wished she'd never had to come back to Hogwarts!

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**13 March 1948**

Two owls awaited Abraxas when he got back to his tent after a long day at healing. Tempted to ignore them until he'd got a shower and had supper, he sighed and plopped onto his cot. He was well acquainted with one of the birds, meaning it was from his mother. He hoped nothing was wrong; she and Father had seemed fairly content last time he'd seen them—more than content, in fact. He was pretty sure they'd been getting along well by the hickeys on Mother's neck, by the lack of Father shouting at her, by….he gritted his teeth to think of it…by the way she took Father's part when he broke the betrothal to Eileen. Always in the past she'd at least in spirit rooted for her son, but this time she outright sided with his sire. Even if she disagreed with the beatings and torture, she did nothing to prevent it, nothing to help him—not even calling the doctor. Fuming now, he passed over the owl and snatched at the message attached to the other one.

Instead of a rolled parchment, the message dangling from the creature's leg consisted of a small linen pouch. Very odd. He removed it, and the owl danced off to peck at a handful of mice-flavoured, magically-skittering seed he threw onto the floor. The second owl joined it. Opening the pouch, he peered inside then emptied it onto the bunk: it was a letter ripped into tiny pieces and stuffed into the bag. He could use his wand to assemble the pieces, but saw no point, he knew what it was. He recognized his own handwriting on the bits he looked at: Eileen had sent back his own letter to let him know she was still angry and hurt. So much for forgiving him.

"_Evanesco_." The slips of parchment vanished.

Abraxas lay back on the cot, trying to ignore the owls hooting for more food. At last he sat up and flung the whole container onto the floor for them; it burst open to produce a mini-mountain of treats that they dug greedily into. Then, since he was already up, he plucked up the Malfoy bird, stripped it of its message, and let it free again. While tempted to vanish or incinerate the letter, he sat down, holding it in front of him, fanning himself with it mechanically.

He was angry. He had every right to be, hadn't he? Mother, the one person who might have been his support, had let him down…again. He hadn't even said goodbye to her when he left for Africa. Once he'd finished his business with Father, he'd left the manor and gone to take his leave of Dr. Cullin, without a thought of Mother. It was fitting, wasn't it?

At the same time, he felt a pang of guilt. No matter what Mother did or failed to do, he still loved her, and wished he'd thought to include her in the wizard's oath he'd made Father swear. They may be getting along well for the moment, but experience had taught him those times didn't last long. Heaving a sigh, he tore open the seal on the letter.

_My Dear Son,_

_I saw Dr. Cullin today, he said you'd gone back to Africa days ago. I suppose I can't blame you for not coming to the manor to see me before you went._

Naturally she didn't wonder why he hadn't gone to see Father, as one would have to be insane to wonder that. And obviously Horatio hadn't told her that their son had indeed been to visit. Abraxas imagined the older wizard couldn't bear the humiliation of telling his wife he'd been forced to swear a wizard's oath, had been disarmed, had gotten his hand stuck to his desk and been thoroughly disgraced by his son. Understandable.

_Although I have no right, I ask your forgiveness for not doing anything to stop Horatio's persecution of you. I didn't know what he was doing, but I knew it was wrong. Dr. Cullin filled me in, probably trying to make me feel shamefaced and guilt-ridden, though it was hardly necessary, for I already despise myself for my weakness. I understand if you never forgive me for all the times I failed you._

"Would you, Mother? Would you really understand?"

_That said, I congratulate you on your new engagement. I am assuming you've asked this other witch to marry you. Yes, I'm disappointed that you won't wed Eileen, but I love you, son. I wish nothing but happiness for you. Any woman you wed shall be welcomed here with open arms. If she needs anything, I will be most happy to help her in any way I can._

_All my love, Mother_

"Damn it," he grumbled, lying down on his back again, staring at the ceiling of the tent. He couldn't even be properly angry with her, and she so deserved it! His resentment held strong right up to the moment she offered his beloved aid, then his resolve crumbled like a flaky biscuit. Thalia didn't come from high society, she likely didn't know what to wear, how to act, where to shop, whom to speak to…so many things that Mother could definitely help with to make Thalia's transition easier.

Frank stuck his head into the tent. "What are you doing in here? Thalia's asking where you disappeared to." He sniggered to himself. "She's been staking out the shower area, and now a couple of blokes think she was hoping for a glimpse of their nakedness."

Glowering, Abraxas got up and threw the letter onto his bunk. "Who? Did they say anything to her?"

"Lighten up, Malfoy, it was a joke," said Frank, stepping inside. "But she is asking where you went." He jutted his chin toward the parchment on the cot. "Bad news?"

"No," said Abraxas, shaking his head. "It's from Mother. I want to be furious with her, but she makes it hard…the whole situation makes it hard."

Frank wisely chose not to respond. If Nicolette had been _his_ mother, he'd have had quite a lot of choice things to say to her over the years, not the least being, 'Why the hell don't you protect me?' Then again, if he'd been brought up in that awful climate, with only his mum to show him any love or affection, perhaps his sentiments might have become warped a bit, too.

Taking up his towel, Abraxas threw it over his shoulder. "Guess I ought to get moving. I don't like keeping my love waiting."

As he exited the tent, Frank glanced over at the letter lying on the bed, unattended. Tempted, he shook his head; he wasn't going to break his friend's confidence no matter how curious he was. Later on Abraxas would tell him what it said. He went to his own bunk to write to his fiancé before supper. How he longed for this trip to be over, to be able to see her again! How he envied Thalia and Abraxas, who got to be together every day!

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"Oh, Nicolette, you've outdone yourself!" Horatio said, studying the tall, muscled body in the mirror. The hair, short and dark, framed his ruggedly handsome face in sweaty strands that evoked images of hard toil. He stroked a hand over a bulging bicep, smiling. The man couldn't be more than thirty years old, and likely not that. "Your tastes are running ever younger, it seems, though I must admit he's got an extraordinary physique. Nice teeth, too." He smiled again, moving his face from side to side to admire the teeth once more.

"And a nice smile," she interjected. "I like that. And anyway, you're the one who habitually picked older men, not me!" She set down her empty goblet of wine, a mainstay in her hand these days, and sidled up to him, letting her hand run down his bare back; in this form, it was tauter, harder than Horatio in his natural form. If she must select men to sleep with, she may as well choose those she found attractive. "He's that smithy I'd heard of, the one who makes such exceptional swords and such."

"Kenneth Macnair, is it?" mused Horatio, turning from the mirror. "I've been meaning to take a look at his goods—" He stopped at a barked giggle from Nicolette, and remembered he was nude…he was indeed getting a close up and personal view of the man's goods! "Was this the only hair, or did you collect more?"

"I got three," she answered, to his obvious delight.

"I could do without this black mess here, but overall it's very appealing." He rubbed a hand over the thick, curly hair on his chest. Perhaps he ought to use magic to get rid of it…then again, if Nicolette found it alluring, she'd make it more fun for both of them.

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Some time later, after Nicolette had gone back to her room, Horatio stretched out on his bed, resting his head on his open hands. The Polyjuice had worn off hours ago, but he couldn't sleep. It wasn't that he was upset with his wife—she'd been astonishingly thorough in her attentions tonight, no doubt due to the new form. It also helped that she kept herself half-lit a great deal of the time now, probably from depression at losing her only friend thanks to their son's selfish, childish refusal to do what he'd been told! Marie Prince was staying away, not speaking to the Malfoys—not that Horatio minded, to be honest. It made controlling Nicolette that much easier.

Even so, he was still pissed at Abraxas. As much as he tried to forget about the humiliation he'd been put through, his blood boiled every time the boy's face came to mind or his name was brought up. Earlier, before Nicolette had gone, that idiot new elf had made the mistake of saying the brat's name, nearly mentioning that he'd been here before leaving again for Africa! Horatio had hit him so hard with the cane it flattened him against the wall and sliced open a weal on his face. He had no intention of letting Nicolette know what had transpired between himself and their insolent son. And as long as she didn't know, he could still hold threats against Abraxas over her head, make sure she remained compliant.

He snorted loudly in the quiet room. The brat would be coming home in a few months, bringing that usurper witch, and if Horatio wanted to keep his magic he'd have to act like he was happy about it. He could do that, he habitually charmed and played up to people outside the family…he merely loathed the notion that he _had_ to do it. To top it off, he was going to be paying for the wedding—which reminded him, he needed to devise a way to break it to Nicolette in such a manner that it sounded like his own idea, a peace offering of sorts. She'd eat up that rubbish.

He picked up his wand, set the wards around his room and on the door, and lay back down. When he eventually got sleepy, he wanted to make sure he hadn't forgotten security practices. Now that Abraxas had apparently turned to the Dark side, he'd need to be all the more careful in the future. Closing his eyes, he smiled to himself: if he were very lucky, one day he'd find a way to pay back that whelp for his audacity. In the meantime, he had Dobby to pound on.

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**16 March 1948**

Gripping the key in his palm, sweat rolling out between his fingers, Abraxas debated what to do. It had been over a week since he returned, tomorrow they'd be moving to another location again; he needed to sort this out. Then again, was there really any alternative? Thalia had accepted his proposal, she was to be his wife; the notion made his stomach flutter anew, and he smiled unconsciously. That said, he had the obligation to make sure she fit in with the upper crust society, a place she wasn't accustomed to being. And _that_ included making sure she had the resources at hand to prevent her detractors from gaining a foothold. As it stood, she'd have to field enough rubbish because of him, because of the betrothal he desperately wished he'd never agreed to. The least he could do was pave the rest of the way.

Nodding to himself, he got up off his cot and went next door to her tent. "Thalia, are you asleep?"

"Yes, Brax, I am. See you in the morning," she called back cheerily.

He'd just begun to turn away when her words registered in his mind and he laughed silently. "Okay, I'm coming in." He pushed aside the flap and went in, sending a _lumos_ and swiftly glancing at the bunk for her roommate, the bunk that never seemed occupied. "Is she _never_ here?" he exclaimed.

Thalia whispered back, "I believe she spends her nights with Colbert. If she's not careful, she's going to end up…" She sat up, holding her arms out, rounded as if hugging a beachball and fingers touching, at a good distance from her belly. She grimaced at the thought of the poor girl becoming pregnant out of wedlock, but the girl simply refused to listen to good sense. Then again, maybe she hoped to trap the young man into marrying her. Whatever the case, it wasn't Thalia's concern or business.

"I wasn't quite sure you knew how that came about," he replied dryly, seating himself beside her.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You don't seem overly…um…interested in…that sort of thing," he said lamely, blushing in the dim light.

"Really?" she retorted, grinning. "This coming from the biggest prude I've ever seen in my life."

"I'm not a prude, I'm prudent! There is a distinct difference," he shot back. He scooted a few inches away, acting affronted. "I respect you far too much to ask you to compromise your dignity or virtue, despite what I'd like."

Thalia smiled broadly now, enjoying the obvious discomfort etched on his face. Yes, he was a prude, but he was _her_ prude, and once they were married no doubt he'd enter into connubial bliss, along with all its attendant matters, wholeheartedly. She slid over to him, grasping his arm and leaning on him. "Sorry, love. Did you come here to discuss marital relations?"

"No," he answered, turning his head to her.

His cheek brushed her soft, slightly wavy hair, and its ripples tickled him. Without thinking, his hand rose to stroke her face, feeling out the contours, and he closed his eyes, quite forgetting why he'd come. At times he wished he weren't so reserved when it came to sexual matters, wished he could take her in his arms and—no. He shoved the contemplation from his mind. It wasn't proper until they were wed, and certainly judicious to keep such thoughts at bay lest he become overly tempted.

Waiting for him to get to his reasoning, Thalia melted against him, her arms snaking round his waist, her head resting on his chest. How she wished they could stay this way forever! As if hearing her musing, he broke in out of the blue.

"Here," he said suddenly, producing the tiny gold key from his hand and pressing it into hers.

She sat up, holding it up in the light and furrowing her brow. "What's this?"

"The key to your vault."

"I don't have a vault," she said, looking even more confused.

"You do now. The money originally belonged to my mother, who gifted it to me." When she started to protest, he put a finger to her lips as he went on, "It's your dowry. You'll need this to avoid even more nasty gossip than what is already coming."

She drew back further, studying incredulously the man who seemed to think this was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. "So you're _giving_ _me_ my dowry so that I can bring it into the marriage as if it's mine?"

"Yes," he said, smiling. "And it is yours, I put it under your name. There's half a million galleons in there, which is no small amount. None of the busybodies can claim you're a golddigger."

"I don't want your money!" she exploded, getting up from the cot and staring him down.

"Too bad, it's yours now," he answered sweetly, grinning. He rose, taking her hands, tugging gently for her to come back with him. She allowed herself to be pulled onto his lap, where he hugged her fiercely. "Thalia, I'm not trying to insult you. Marrying a Malfoy means marrying money. Besides, now that it's in your name, and you have the only key, I couldn't touch it if I wanted to."

She lifted her chin a tad. "What if I just take it and leave without marrying you. Like you said, it's a lot of money."

"Then I will have learned a very expensive lesson," he murmured into her hair. "But I don't believe you will. I think you love me as much as I love you."

"You're wrong," she said flatly. Abraxas stiffened, bewildered, until she continued with, "I love you more."

"If you say so, darling," he acquiesced. A second later he planted his lips on hers, and the talking ceased altogether. In a little while he'd need to return to his tent to prevent engaging in any unseemly activities, but for now he'd dearly like to snog his beloved.


	20. Chapter 20

9

Father, My Father—Chapter 20

(**A/N**: Please make sure you have read the last few chapters. Judging by the hit count and reviews, we are missing a segment of our readers. Thank you. )

**1 July 1948**

Abraxas glanced about the posh London flat he'd rented for Thalia, taking in the crisp, clean lines of the modern furniture, the nearly bare walls whose few paintings made him think of a child's grotesque play-work on canvas. Honestly, what the hell were they supposed to be? They resembled nothing he'd ever seen. The whole place seemed so foreign, so…empty. So…not like what he was used to in a home. Still, she seemed pleased enough, and that was what counted. It was only for a few months anyway, then she'd be moving into Malfoy Manor with him. He smiled at the woman walking his way. Good Lord, she was stunning!

Thalia did a little twirl for him, flaring the bottom of her dress around her knees as she spun. She wore a rich, deep green velvet so dark it appeared black, cinched on the side at the waist; he noted she'd magically sewn up the provocative slit on the side. The beaded bolero jacket in matching velvet hid the fact that the rhinestone and crystal embellished bodice was strapless, something his father undoubtedly would comment on as improper for a young lady. She purposely chose not to wear a hat, despite its current popularity. Her long, wavy golden tresses draped down her back and over her shoulder.

"Your mother must have picked out some clothes for me and had them sent here. There are several dresses and outer robes in the closet. How do I look?"

"Gorgeous, as always," he whispered, finding himself suddenly breathless, nuzzling up to her neck to kiss her. "And I selected those outfits."

"Really?" she asked, astonished and pleased at once. "You have exquisite taste."

"Thank you, but don't expect me to make a habit of it," he grinned, pulling away from her. "My mother has offered to take you shopping whenever you want. Well, are you ready then?"

She let out a faint, anxious laugh. "I'm not sure. With what I know about your dad, I don't know if I'll ever be ready."

He took her hand in his, squeezing lightly. "I'm right with you, darling. We'll be fine."

They moved out onto the balcony, closed the doors behind them, and disapparated with Abraxas leading the way; moments later they apparated onto the front lawn of the manor. "I'd have brought us down there by the gates so you could get a good look at the grounds, but in those heels it wouldn't be fun walking all the way up here," he explained ruefully as they made their way to the porch.

Thalia stopped for a moment to gaze around her in every direction, awed. "Even from here it's so grand, so enormous, so…I don't even know what to say."

"Wait till you see inside," he teased, chuckling. "I told you I was filthy rich."

She giggled with him, more out of nervousness than joviality. "Somehow I didn't quite believe you."

"Don't worry, we've got months before our wedding, you'll have loads of time to walk the grounds and become accustomed to your new home," he drawled.

"Another time," she said quietly, as if afraid to alert the occupants of their arrival.

Too late. The door was thrown open with a flourish by Fancy, who'd obviously been waiting for her Abraxas to arrive. "Welcome, Master Abraxas! Welcome, Miss…" Her enormous eyes gaped at Abraxas blankly. She didn't know the witch's name! Oh, Master would be so upset!

"Thalia," said Thalia, smiling at the elf. "You must be Fancy. Abraxas has told me all about you."

"Master…Master Abraxas talksing of Fancy?" repeated the elf, uncomprehending. She blinked several times, not quite sure what to think.

"Yes, Fancy, I've told my wife-to-be what a good elf you are, how kind and wonderful you've always been, and how happy she'll be with your service," Abraxas assured the poor creature. He patted her head, and could swear she purred in return. Did elves even know how to purr?

"Fancy makes Miss Thalia most happy witch ever!" declared Fancy, bowing low to the witch and wizard. She got up and adjusted the ring of flowers round her skull. "Master and Mistress wantsing Master Abraxas and Miss Thalia to meet them in the dining room." So saying, she took off at a trot to lead the way.

"The moment of truth," said Thalia under her breath. Forcing a smile, she marched along with her beloved to her doom.

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"So you're an Ollerton," said Horatio, nodding. It was a good, upright family; he'd have to give his insubordinate brat that much. "Do you know Barnaby, Bob, and Bill?" To Thalia's bemused expression, he prompted, "The founders of the Cleansweep Broom Company."

"Sorry, no," Thalia answered, setting her goblet of wine onto the table beside her empty dessert plate. How she wanted to gulp it all down in one swallow! "They're descended from one brother of the ancient line, I'm descended from the other. The branches of the family tree grew ever further apart, I'm afraid. I've never met them."

"Thalia, wasn't your mother a Fawley? I believe Abraxas said so," noted Nicolette, casting a sidelong glance at her husband. The Fawley line was as pureblood as the Malfoys, there was no way he could find fault with that. Although she highly doubted Abraxas had cared when he was making the young woman's acquaintance, he'd fortunately made an excellent choice.

"Yes, ma'am," Thalia answered. "She was an only child…" She picked up her goblet again to take a sip. She didn't feel comfortable talking about her dead family, not to strangers, even if they were Abraxas' parents.

"Well, if we're done vetting Thalia about her family, perhaps we could discuss something else," Abraxas interjected, drawing a murderous look from his father. "We've got our healing degrees now, and as I informed you earlier, I plan to apply at the Ministry as soon as possible in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Thalia, naturally, won't be expected to hold a job."

Her head jerked in his direction. "Are you saying I can't have a job if I want to?"

"No, darling, of course not," he assured her quickly. "It's just that Malfoy women, as a rule, don't work outside the home…and once you're pregnant I don't think you'll want to."

"Brax, this isn't really the time or place to discuss that," she hissed softly, blushing and dropping her head.

"So I can safely assume she's not with child _now_," said Horatio, raising an eyebrow.

"No, she's not!" Abraxas shot back. "Thank you for your concern."

Horatio smiled tightly. His hand literally trembled with a desire to smack his son's insolent mouth. Mustn't do so, not if he wanted to retain his magic. Damn that whelp and the vow he'd forced him to make! The strain of being polite all evening was wearing on him, and beating on Dobby when he was angered just didn't satisfy him—nor did hitting Nicolette. She was too eager to give in and beg. It was sickening, really. As much as he despised Abraxas' cheekiness, at least he presented a challenge.

In his most charming tone, the one he used with those outside the family, he said, "Nicolette, perhaps we should let the youngsters go now. Thalia looks weary. I'm sure it's been a long day, what with coming back from Africa only yesterday, being in a new place, and meeting new people."

"Yes, of course," said Nicolette, rising along with her husband. "Thalia, it's been a pleasure to meet you. I look forward to seeing you again soon."

"Thank you, it's been my pleasure as well," said Thalia, awkwardly rising to her feet to shake hands.

Abraxas bid his parents goodnight, then turned to his beloved. "That wasn't too horrible, was it?"

"No, not so bad," she admitted.

"Come on, I'll give you a quick tour of the manor before escorting you back to your flat."

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Horatio stormed up the staircase with Nicolette beside him, fuming as he went. Trying to turn his attention to something more productive than maiming their son, she said softly, "Tomorrow when Abraxas gives his press conference, maybe we should all go out there together, in a show of solidarity."

Horatio sneered back at her. "If you think I'm going out there to chat with the reporters about your son's stupidity, you've got another think coming."

"It was just a thought."

"A ridiculous thought," he retorted.

At the top of the stairs, he stomped off to the right wing, and she went left, neither speaking. His door slammed, and she closed hers quietly. A few minutes later, she thought she heard Abraxas talking as he walked by. Her eyes flew open wide—he was taking the girl to his room! No, he wouldn't dare, she mused. He was simply showing her around.

She approached her bed and sat down, brush in hand, and started to brush her locks. In spite of her reservations, she found she liked Thalia. Abraxas had asked her to take the girl under her wing, show her the ropes of how to survive not only in their society, but as a Malfoy wife in the limelight all the time. She could do that. If she took the girl shopping and really got to know her, they could become close, she knew it. The notion lifted her spirits. It would be good to have a woman to spend time with again.

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**2 July 1948 **

Abraxas waited till the cluster of reporters were all gathered on the front lawn of Malfoy Manor before making his move—not that he was in any great hurry to make that move, of course. Nonetheless, it had to be done sooner or later, and he wouldn't shirk his duty. He kept the press waiting another ten minutes, then ushered Thalia outside onto the front porch beside him. Originally he'd intended to go this alone, shoulder the burden of shame alone, but she'd insisted, and he couldn't honestly say he was sorry. It felt good to have her there, supporting him, loving him. Shutters of cameras clicked, voices grew animated.

"Mr. Malfoy, is this the woman you deserted Eileen Prince for?"

"Abraxas, Give us the full scoop! Who is this woman?"

"Mr. Malfoy, are the rumours true? Was Miss Prince unfaithful?"

Abraxas held up a hand, pausing for them to become quiet. He took a deep breath, glancing at his beloved and smiling before addressing the crowd. She made him so proud, standing there like the mistress of the house already, radiant in her fitted teal satin robes that accentuated her chest and showed off her flat tummy, her hair swept up from her face, so poised and composed despite the nervousness she'd expressed to him only minutes ago. He wished he could snog her right there and then.

"We're not here for an interview, this is to make a statement and answer a few questions," he began, looking about at the small crowd of reporters scribbling furiously and camera-wielders taking shot after shot. "I've decided to appear at this press conference to clear the air, to let the facts be known. I understand that breaking my betrothal to Eileen Prince was not only highly unusual, but scandalous in the eyes of much of our society. Let me stress now that Eileen was in no way at fault."

He wished he hadn't paused, for someone took the opportunity to shout out, "So you're blaming this young lady?"

"No!" Abraxas said, bordering on a snarl. Composing himself, he smiled blandly and continued, "It was two years ago; I was barely seventeen, ill prepared to accept what I was getting into. I had never even met Eileen until the week of our betrothal. I think it goes without saying that I was not in love with her. That said, Eileen did absolutely nothing wrong, the culpability rests solely upon me. One year ago I met this precious witch and was instantly captivated." He gestured to Thalia, who blushed as his eyes roamed lovingly over her. "I pursued her, not the other way around."

"But she let you court her, knowing you were spoken for," another voice rang out.

"Not true," Abraxas drawled, forcing himself to remain calm as Thalia squeezed his hand comfortingly. "When I admitted to her about my engagement, she dumped me."

There was a general snicker in the clique, which was well deserved, he thought, considering the circumstances. "So didn't she force you to break off your betrothal?" piped up a wizard in the back.

"The decision was entirely mine," said Abraxas, mentally whacking the wizard in the head with the business end of a bat. "And her name is Thalia—Thalia Fawley Ollerton. Spelled T-H-A-L-I-A. She has agreed to be my wife—_after_ I dissolved my betrothal, let there be no ambiguity there." There was another round of general excited uproar. "I reiterate that if anyone deserves to be vilified or scandalized for my behaviour, it is myself alone—not Thalia, not my parents, not Eileen or her family. I sincerely apologize to them all for causing such a mess, but I will never apologize for loving Thalia."

"So is this an official announcement?" asked a woman enthusiastically, nearly jumping up and down in her spot. Abraxas recognized her as a reporter who often did stories on his family.

"Yes and no," said Abraxas slowly. "We intend an engagement party, so naturally we will supply any necessary details about her life for our formal engagement announcement."

"Ollerton," repeated a witch in front. "Any relation to Gifford Ollerton, the noted giant slayer from the 1400s?"

Abraxas opened his mouth, but before he could speak he heard Thalia saying softly, "Yes. He is my ancestor. He killed Hengist of Upper Barnton, though I believe that is the only noteworthy thing he did, aside from having children to carry on his name."

The reporters laughed. Another ventured, "So when is the wedding?"

"We're planning it for October; the date isn't yet set," Thalia answered, smiling pleasantly.

More scribbling. Apparently there were some who suspected her to be preggers, expected a quicky-hurry up wedding; waiting several months left no doubt that she was not with child. Taking the opportunity to end this conference, Abraxas cleared his throat, pulling her ever so gently closer to him.

"Thank you for coming, I hope this clarifies the subject at hand. As the details of the wedding proceed, undoubtedly my mother and my bride-to-be will keep you all informed. Good day." Bowing slightly, he opened the door to the manor, let Thalia enter ahead of him, and closed it behind them with a sigh. That had gone far better than he'd hoped.

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**3 July 1948**

_Thalia and Abraxas huddled mere meters from the edge of the cliff at the Malfoys' summer home, terrified eyes turned on the witch a short distance away, wielding her wand at them, holding their wands in her clenched fist. The wild summer wind blew Thalia's long blond hair round in circles about her head, smacking her face in stinging slaps. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she trembled so hard she could barely stand. Abraxas stood partly in front of his fiancée, arms outstretched in supplication. _

_ "Eileen, I'm sorry. Don't do this," he pleaded._

_ "You know you deserve it," cooed Eileen, flicking her wand menacingly in their direction._

_ "Please, what do you want?" he asked, pushing the other woman further behind him._

_ "Marry me instead of her."_

_ Looking pained, Abraxas furrowed his brow in anguish. "I can't do that, Eileen. I love her."_

_ "You'll forget about her! You'll learn to love me!" shouted Eileen._

_ "How can I forget?" implored Abraxas, taking a tentative step in Eileen's direction._

_ "Don't move any closer." She gestured with the wand for him to stop. "We'll get married, we'll do what married people do—you'll see, I'll be a wonderful wife. Look at her, she's not so pretty when she's crying, is she? She can't make you happier than I can."_

_ "Let her go. Kill me, but let her go," said Abraxas softly._

_ "I knew you'd say that, you're so damned gallant, aren't you?" demanded Eileen. "Except when it comes to honouring your promises!"_

_ Abraxas took another step in Eileen's direction and she cast an __immobulus__ on him. "I said don't come any closer, didn't I? Now it's all your fault what happens." _

_Turning her wand on Thalia, she blasted her with a __stupefy__ that knocked her down and sent her rolling to the edge of the cliff. Then, deliberately stalking over to Thalia, she gave her a tiny shove with her foot that sent her careening over the drop, screaming as she fell. Abruptly the scream died._

_ "There, now you haven't got her as an excuse," said Eileen. She walked to Abraxas, reached up, and kissed him on the lips. She pulled away, smiling. "Wasn't that nice? I can do it even better. You'll come to love me like you should, in time." A wicked smile twisted her lips. Why hadn't she thought of this before? Aiming her wand into his face, she whispered, "__Obliviate__." There, now he'd forget what she'd done…although he wouldn't forget Thalia, not yet—not till she used the Imperius on him. Once he loved her, she could remove the spell and they'd live happily ever after. _

Eileen stirred from her daydream with a start. Someone was poking her in the side with a quill. No, wait, it wasn't school time. It was the owl who'd delivered the newspaper pecking at her for food. She blinked, looking around her. It had seemed so real for a minute there. Sighing heavily, she tossed the owl a treat and lay back onto the bed. As much as she'd love for it to be real just for revenge, she couldn't harm Abraxas…or anyone. Not even his bitch of a girlfriend. For some reason she felt bad even thinking that. She had no idea what this witch was like, and the _Daily Prophet_ said Abraxas hadn't told her he was engaged at first; he'd tricked her, too. And yet on general principles she had to hate this person as much as she despised Abraxas, for she was impeding her own happiness. If _Thalia_ didn't exist, he'd still be hers…but knowing now that he'd never loved her would make it a hollow victory at best.

She threw the crumpled newspaper onto the floor, got up, and stomped on their smiling faces for good measure, then stamped off down the stairs to take her mind off _them_.


	21. Chapter 21

8

Father, My Father—Chapter 21

**9 July 1948**

The lift at the Ministry of Magic stopped at level 3 as it announced, "Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes."

Abraxas looked around the otherwise empty lift, butterflies flitting in his stomach, and he grimaced at his weakness. Malfoys shouldn't be nervous; besides, what had he to be nervous about? He was a well-trained, proficient wizard who'd not only studied with Professor Lazarov—one of the best in Bulgaria—but he had in hand his Degree in Healing signed by Doctor Dorshea Hodgins herself, one of the most respected witches in the field. And he was a Malfoy—that alone would open many avenues whether he were qualified or not, though he'd much prefer to draw on his skills than his name.

He paused a bit too long, and the gate began to clang shut. He rammed his foot into the space between the metal guard and the wall, and upon feeling itself blocked it opened once more, again announcing the destination. Disembarking, he brushed down his immaculate robes, threw his head back, and strode to the nearest office. The sign above the door read _Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee_. That wasn't what he wanted so he continued on, reading the titles above each door till he came to the _Accidental Magic Reversal Squad._ Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door to enter.

A shabbily dressed, redheaded man roughly twelve years older than Abraxas looked up from his desk, then at the clock behind him on the wall. "You're early."

"I like to be prompt," Abraxas answered, stepping forward to shake hands. "Mr. Weasley."

"Mr. Malfoy," returned Septimus Weasley, suppressing a smile. It seemed odd to call this barely-of- age boy "Mr." when he'd practically watched him grow up—not up close, of course, for their parents couldn't be considered friends in any respect, but at large gatherings of purebloods they were bound to cross paths. "Won't you sit down?"

"Thank you." Abraxas seated himself stiffly.

Of all the people in this department who might have interviewed him, why did it have to be the blood traitor who'd married Cedrella Black, marring the proud Black family name? Orion and Cygnus were Abraxas' friends, he'd listened to them moan about Cedrella's mistake on more than one occasion. For as long as he could remember, he'd heard his parents and nearly everyone at Durmstrang disparage blood traitors almost as badly as the muggles they championed. Not that Abraxas hated muggles, per se—he'd been in intimate proximity, curing them for the past year, after all. What stuck in his craw was the idea espoused by these muggle-lovers that wizards and witches were no better than the muggles, despite their obvious superiority via magic. What were the traitors hoping for, that the muggles would cease their mistrust and hatred of wizarding kind and embrace their betters, and they'd all live happily ever after? As far as Abraxas was concerned, keeping mudbloods out of wizarding society was the best thing they could do for wizards and witches to protect them from the muggle relatives who'd undoubtedly learn of the wizarding world.

"Abraxas, I asked you a question."

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you," he answered sheepishly. It wasn't like him to be caught out this way. A light flush crept into his cheeks, embarrassing him further. "I was thinking…about this job." Better for all involved if Weasley didn't find out what he'd really been pondering!

"I asked about your qualifications. I see here you listed Professor Lazarov and Doctor Hodgins as references."

"Yes, sir. I worked for two years with Professor Lazarov and some veela friends of his in Bulgaria, studying herbs and magical plants, potion making, and so forth." He carefully concealed his pleasure at the way Weasley perked up when he mentioned veelas. Most men had so little control where those lovely beings were concerned. "As I'm sure you know, veelas are renowned for their skill in healing and potions."

"Yes, I'm aware," said Septimus, though he leaned forward as if hoping to hear more about the pretty creatures. He caught himself and returned to his proper position. "It says here you did a year-long tour with Dr. Hodgins…have you any verification of this?"

Abraxas pulled the certificate from his pocket and presented it to the man. Weasley unrolled it, studied it, then handed it back, scribbling a note on his parchment.

"Excellent. You're certainly qualified medically," said Septimus. "May I ask why you'd like to work here rather than in the medical field itself?"

"Well, I never thought of myself as just being a healer—not that it's a bad thing! Without them the entire world would suffer," Abraxas said, feeling like a babbling idiot as he blushed again. The fact that he'd lost his composure not once, but twice in front of _Weasley_ of all people made him want to kick his own arse. "I mean, this department embodies healing when potions or spells go wrong, splinching accidents and so on. I like the idea of being out in the field, not cooped in an office all the time. It's like a surgeon and emergency room doctor combined in one, only we take our craft to the patient, not the other way around."

Weasley smiled, then chuckled. "I couldn't have put it better myself. I joined for much the same reason, the thrill of the job in addition to the rewards of putting someone back together, basically. So you're not interested in being an Obliviator?"

"I understand that's a separate job in this task force," Abraxas responded guardedly.

"It is, although we encourage all our squad members to become proficient in the event that an Obliviator isn't available to modify muggle memories." He leaned forward again, this time in a conspiratorial manner. "As long as you're trained and capable, we don't require a license for it."

"But you encourage us to obtain one," Abraxas finished for him.

"Yes." Septimus sat back again, observing Malfoy. "We have an opening on one of our teams. However, I can only offer you a probationary position. You understand, we must make the final decision based on your performance. More than one strong man has turned to jelly when he sees a child lying in the street sliced in half."

"Understood," said Abraxas, nodding.

"Have you any questions for me?"

"No—well, yes," Abraxas said. "Would you be my boss?"

"Not technically," replied Weasley, motioning with his hand to a room further to his left. "While my tenure here gives me some influence, we're all under the authority of Mr. Edward Clydesdale, and you wouldn't even be in my squad." Did he detect a breath of relief?

Abraxas started to get up, then hesitated. "I _am_ correct in assuming you're giving me the opportunity to prove myself?"

"You are correct," said Septimus. He held out his hand, which Abraxas shook. "Be back here Monday, eight o'clock. Your squad leader will be Honoria Ritzcomb. She'll brief you."

"Thank you, We—Mr. Weasley." Elated, Abraxas hurried from the room before the other man could change his mind. He'd never had a job…most Malfoys in the past few centuries had never had a job outside the work they did in the master study, buying and selling property for profit, but he liked the idea of starting a new trend. And Thalia would be so proud of him!

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"And he said to be back there Monday to begin work!" Abraxas concluded, beaming at his beloved.

Thalia smiled back, embracing him tightly. "I never doubted you for a moment. I hope you enjoy it."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, they are the first line of defense when terrible accidents occur, to see the awful fallout," Thalia explained with a shrug. "I think I prefer the more cleaned up version of patients as they arrive after the Magical Reversal Squad has done the emergency work on them." She paused, peering at Abraxas, who studied her intently. "I just mean that it's a lot of pressure to be the first responder, when some of the patients will be dead already, others hurt beyond repair…" She trailed off.

A long silence followed, then Abraxas said, "I think that's why I want to do this. Someone competent has to help those people before they die, if possible. They need all the good witches and wizards they can get for it. I'm not squeamish, you know."

"No, of course you aren't…I am, though, which is why I got a job as a mediwitch in the obstetrician wing at St. Mungo's instead of pursuing a position like yours." She gazed up at him, evidently anticipating some kind of reaction; the one she got likely wasn't the expected reaction.

"You got a job?" he echoed in confusion, as if the words suddenly ceased to hold any meaning.

"Yes. Isn't it wonderful?"

"But…but I thought we agreed that you wouldn't," he sputtered, gobsmacked into befuddlement.

"Really?" asked Thalia, voice tightening. "When exactly did we agree on that?"

"You don't need one," he pressed, ignoring her question since he had no answer for it. "You've got your vault money if you require anything, and I will happily pay your rent and bills. It's my responsibility as your husband. Malfoy women don't work outside the home."

"Except you're forgetting we aren't married yet," Thalia shot back, pulling out of his arms. Her voice rose in pitch as she stated bluntly, "And we never will be if you think you can dictate how I live my life, what I can do or what I can't. I am not now, nor will I ever be, your slave or chattel! If you want a submissive little woman, you can marry Eileen!"

Abraxas merely stood there staring at her, mouth open in a tiny 'o'. She _never_ brought up Eileen, it was…well, it seemed to be a taboo subject between them. He swallowed a lump rising in his throat, and cold sweat broke out over his body. Was she breaking up with him? Every thought in his mind began swirling as his heart raced and his lungs refused to accept the air he tried pumping into them. "Darling, I'm not—you aren't my slave or property, I'd never think of you that way. I simply assumed—you didn't say—please don't leave me!"

Thalia cocked her head, narrowing her eyes. "Why would I leave you? I love you, Brax. I just don't want you thinking you can rule me."

"I don't!" _Not now anyway_. Pureblood society gave men rule over their wives; he'd never questioned it before, mainly because being the male, it extended to him the position of power. But if there existed even a chance of Thalia refusing to wed him for invoking that archaic privilege, he'd happily toss it aside. "I wasn't thinking at all. If you want to work, I won't say a word about it. You can do whatever you want, my darling, as long as you marry me and love me."

A smile quirking the corners of her mouth, she stepped forward into his open arms once more. "How can a girl say no to that?" She glanced up at him, lips pursed. "You still don't like the idea, though, do you?"

"I'll get used to it." He kissed her on the forehead and pulled her so close she squeaked.

"Are you proud of me?" she pressed.

"Always," he answered earnestly. Then, grinning, he added, "Congratulations on acquiring your job as mediwitch. I am sincere in that."

"Thank you, honey, your approval means a lot to me." She nestled deeper in his arms.

"Will lack of approval stop you from doing as you please?" he asked, almost hopefully.

"No. But nice try."

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**11 July 1948**

Dinner was almost ready, and Abraxas was glad. He was hungry, but more than that he hoped to get to bed early, being as his first day of work commenced in the morning. Pacing the dining room, he checked the time on his pocket watch yet again. "I wish they'd hurry it up," he grumbled to no one in particular.

As Thalia was the only other person in the room, it fell upon her to respond. "It'll be done when it's done, I guess." She lazily picked at her fingertip with the end of a fork as she sat watching him stalk up and down the room. "That won't make it go any faster, you know."

She was glad her soon-to-be in-laws hadn't yet come to the dining room. Making small talk with Nicolette was fine, they got on well, but Horatio passed himself off as…charming. Yes, charming, and it nettled her because she was aware of what he was really like, the horrible things he'd done to Brax and Nicolette. It insulted her intelligence when he acted sweet and kind, when she knew he was neither. And to top it off, she could see in his eyes that he realized he was insulting her, and he enjoyed it. Yet for her to respond rudely to him seemed inappropriate, and she certainly didn't wish to cause strife—

An inhuman scream from the kitchen startled her out of her ruminations. In an instant Abraxas was running, with Thalia on his heels. The wizard skidded to a stop, wand in hand; Thalia slammed into him, knocking him forward, then holding him by the waist she peered around him.

On the kitchen floor lay Dobby, curled into a fetal position. Standing over him was Fancy, head-wreath askew, a wooden rolling pin in one hand, Dobby's long, pointed ear in the other. She alternately tugged on the ear and whacked him in the back with the pin, screeching at him the entire time as he moaned, thrashed, and yelped. After several whacks, Abraxas finally cleared his throat.

"Fancy, please stop that."

Immediately the elf dropped the rolling pin and ran to Abraxas, after giving Dobby a swift kick in the side with her bare foot. "Master Abraxas, Fancy is so sorry! Bad Dobby burns Master's bread! Supper is ruined!" She burst into sobs, concave chest heaving as she wailed, "Master's—supper be's late. Fancy—must—to cook—more bread! It—takeses—hours!"

"It's alright, Fancy," he soothed, stroking her bald pate. He rearranged her ring of flowers for her. "We can live without fresh bread tonight. Perhaps you can whip us up some savoury scones."

The elf stopped whimpering, and her face lifted. Tears creased down her cheeks, but she'd stopped sobbing. "Yes. Fancy can do that. They don't takes so long."

"Good. It's settled then." He smiled at her, and the elf smiled back before throwing herself at him, hugging his leg fiercely.

"Fancy loves Master Abraxas so much!"

He had to pry her off his leg, with Thalia watching and snickering behind her hand. Dobby, meanwhile, had slinked off somewhere out of sight, so Abraxas took his beloved's hand and went back into the dining room to wait. "Thought that was funny, did you?"

"Didn't you?" she asked, giggling again. "That Fancy is so adorable! She loves you like a mother…you're so lucky."

"Yes, I am," he said softly.

"I hope Dobby is alright. She was hitting him pretty hard."

"I'm sure he's fine," said Abraxas, settling into the chair beside her. "He's so strange for an elf, always punishing himself without being told to, slinking around and watching people. And Fancy told me he wants to be free! Can you imagine that?"

"I've never had an elf, but from what I hear that's a very unusual position for one to take," admitted Thalia. "I thought it was shameful for them not to have a family to care for."

"It is, that's why it's so odd. I try to be decent to him, but Father…well, I think you get the picture there. Anyway, let's not speak of that. He's coming." Abraxas automatically sat up straight, nodding toward the hallway where footsteps could be heard. Time to get through another meal without an argument…that took a concentrated effort on everyone's part. And best not to mention the fight in the kitchen, lest Father summon Dobby and beat him bloody for his infraction. Just thinking of it made Abraxas lose his appetite.

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**26 July 1948**

Temperatures in Wales tended to be brisk, if one wanted to be polite. Cold might be more accurate. Even in July, the weather at this Malfoy summer home was chilly, albeit dry for the time being; it seemed no wonder that the family never actually spent any time there. Horatio apparated to the property on the far west coast, just north of Aberystwyth, and took a deep breath of the fresh, clean ocean air. Yes, this would be the perfect place.

After watching the ocean's crashing waves for a short while, he turned to face the house—more of a bungalow when compared to Malfoy Manor, or even to many of their other holdings. It had only four bedrooms and two baths, a true rustic cabin as far as he was concerned. Unimportant: it had a cellar, which was the thing he needed. Striding up to the door, he unlocked it and went inside. He made a mental note to take down the anti-apparition wards on the house itself and to establish different wards around the property to keep out muggles.

Ignoring the rest of the one-story home, he headed straight for the cellar door, clomped down, and stood there surveying the area. He didn't recall ever having been down here before, as he'd not been the one to purchase the property. It looked dim, bleak, the floor of dirt. Yes, definitely he had not been the one to purchase this _quaint_ little house. Even so, it served his purpose; the far wall was long, windowless, stone foundation. Along the adjacent wall were a series of shelves, all empty. He'd remedy that right now. Taking an earthenware flask stopped with a cork from his robes, he set it on the middle shelf. Beside it he set a tiny wooden box containing a clutch of twisted blond hairs.

Smiling evilly to himself, he took his wand from the hilt of his cane and aimed at the wall. He had some redecorating to do.


	22. Lestrange Turn of Events

9

Father, My Father—Chapter 22 (Lestrange Turn of Events)

**31 July 1948**

He was being a dutiful, respectful son, no one could fault Abraxas on that. He spoke politely, as an heir should, he laughed at his father's grumpy, snide remarks as if they were meant to be humourous, he deferred place when they came to an area of Diagon Alley too narrow for them to pass side by side—in short, he put on the show he'd promised, and he'd kept that promise, which irritated Horatio no end. Especially when he got a good look at his son's eyes, when he saw the loathing behind the smile, telling him it was all as much a joke as his own play-acting. To top it off, it was bad enough pretending to like that—that—_witch_—Abraxas had brought home to muddle up their lives, but when she responded in kind, it only meant Horatio had to step up and be even nicer than the sweetness that was fast eroding his teeth. If he had to be pleasant to her or his ingrate of a son for more than this afternoon, he'd likely go berserk and kill a bystander.

The four of them—Abraxas, Thalia, Horatio, and Nicolette entered Twilfit and Tattings, with Abraxas holding the door for the lot of them. Stepping inside from the bustle outside, it seemed intensely, disturbingly quiet. From across the room a tall, wiry woman in flowing robes that failed to hide her boniness waved at them and uttered a greeting, which they all murmured in reply. She turned away from the manikin on which she was sewing a robe.

"To what do I owe the honour of the entire Malfoy family's visit?" she asked excitedly.

"Hello, Ida, it's good to see you again," said Nicolette, holding out her hand. The other woman took it briefly, waiting expectantly. "Of course you remember my husband and my son."

"Yes, of course," Ida said, smiling. "Young Master Abraxas, how you've grown! Seems only yesterday you were a tyke. How old are you now? Seventeen, eighteen?"

"Nineteen, ma'am," said Abraxas almost shyly. "My birthday passed in May." He drew Thalia up beside him, an arm about her waist. "Madam Ingerness, I'd like to present to you my fiancée, Thalia Ollerton."

"My pleasure," said Thalia, shaking the witch's hand.

Ida's smile broadened, if possible. "It's so good to meet you, Miss Ollerton. I can't believe your man is all grown up and getting married!" A hand flew to her mouth. Dare she hope? "Are you—are you here to be fitted for wedding robes?"

"Yes, we are," answered Abraxas, wondering why the woman appeared so shocked. She was a tailor, wasn't she?

"I—I don't know what to say," gasped Ida, flustered. "I expected you'd go to Paris or Rome or some such place for the most modern…I'm so delighted!"

"As are we," interjected Nicolette, wishing Horatio would stop looking so bored and try to act civil to the woman. "You've always done an exceptional job for us, we feel no need to leave the island." A slightly sour expression crossed her face and then was gone. "We passed by Madam Maulkin's shop, but don't think for a minute I'd consider using her."

"Not when she caters to the lowlife crowd," Horatio chipped in. So he was listening!

Thalia's brows went up, and she turned to Abraxas, who whispered, "Mudblood lover."

"Ah," said Thalia, nodding. She held no animosity toward mudbloods, as long as they kept their place, although as she understood it, the Ministry of Magic in Britain was becoming overrun with them. They weren't brought up with knowledge of or love for the wizarding world, how could they conceivably continue the traditions so cherished by those of wizarding heritage for centuries? That could only cause problems for the wizarding world in the future.

"Miss Ollerton, is there something you have in mind for your gown?" asked Madam Ingerness.

"No, actually I'm open to ideas," said Thalia.

"Perhaps we should look around the shop," suggested Nicolette, pointing at a row of various fabrics. "Is it alright if we peruse your photos of previous works and latest fashions?"

"Yes, yes, anything you want! There's a large book over there with everything I've got," responded Ida happily. When the women had gone to sort through the organdies and silks and satins, she addressed the men. "Gentlemen, would you like to look at the materials as well? We have every sort—"

"I think not," Horatio said shortly, cutting her off. "Once you've got my measurements, I imagine you're quite capable of designing suitable garments."

"We'll gladly accept whatever you recommend, bowing to your expertise," Abraxas inserted smoothly, wishing he could kick his father in the arse for such rude behaviour. Knowing it was on account of his own presence made no difference, they'd both been brought up better than that.

"Right this way, then, let me get you fitted," she replied, indicating the raised area where her measuring tape hung in the air, unsupported.

She'd finished with Horatio, who was lounging on a padded couch near the door, sipping champagne and watching out the window while she measured Abraxas, when a dark-haired young man with piercing dark eyes entered with a boy of eleven. "I'll be right with you!" she called.

"Take your time," said the man, glancing about the shop, taking it all in. "Good afternoon, Mr. Malfoy." He nodded at the senior wizard, who lifted his glass slightly in acknowledgment. Taking the boy by the shoulder, he guided him further into the shop, then stopped in front of the dais where Abraxas stood perfectly still as Ida measured him.

"Hello, Claudius," Abraxas managed, not twitching a muscle aside from his face. Not that he cared overly much for his own sake, but he wanted this outfit to be perfect for Thalia. "Varden."

"Hello, Abraxas," Claudius Lestrange responded, eyeing him up and down. The boy merely gave a short wave and lowered his head. The elder took the liberty of seating himself on the edge of the sewing table nearby. "Getting married, I hear. Congratulations."

"Thank you. I'd introduce my fiancée, but…" He smiled weakly.

"Understood. It hasn't been long since I was fitted for my own wedding robes." He took a cigarette from his pocket, but at the sharp look from Madam Ingerness, he put it back. "Anyway, today I'm here for my brother. He begins school at Hogwarts in September, needs the whole nine yards." At the unintended pun, he laughed to himself.

"What's so funny?" asked the boy, the first words he'd said since entering.

"We're here for your robes. 'The whole nine yards' means _everything_, but since we're in a tailor shop, it means the cloth, too," explained Claudius, chuckling again. Varden didn't seem amused. "Oh, never mind."

"So how is your wife doing?" inquired Abraxas. "She's about due to have the baby, isn't she?"

"Yes, any day now. I probably should order some clothes for our son while I'm here."

"What if it's a girl?" asked Varden, toying with the edge of a bolt of cloth, pulling on a thread.

The young man ignored him with a roll of the eyes. "Forgive the kid, he seems to forget we Lestranges have heirs, not girls."

"It could happen," Abraxas replied. "If purebloods didn't produce girls, whom would we marry?"

Claudius merely snorted in response. He gestured toward the back of the shop, where Nicolette and Thalia were talking excitedly about something. "Your mum and fiancée back there? Perhaps I should say hello." He got up, and was about to walk back into the shop when Madam Ingerness let the tape measure float back into the air.

"All done, Master Abraxas. I'll get started on your robes as soon as possible; I'll make sure they complement Thalia's dress. When do you need them?" Meaning: when is the wedding? The date had not yet been made public.

"Mid-October," said Abraxas, stepping down from the platform. "I assume there will be one or more fittings prior to that."

"Naturally," answered Ida. She took up a quill to jot down the measurements and approximate date. "Mr. Lestrange, while I'm right here let's go ahead and measure Varden."

Abraxas nodded to the other young man, then headed for the door. Seeing his father on the couch, he rapidly made an about-face and headed back to look for Thalia. Conversing for hours about boring wedding preparations and fabrics couldn't possibly be as bad as talking to his father for a little while.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

**13 August 1948**

"What do you mean you haven't been in to get fitted yet?" exploded Abraxas, slamming the door to Frank's room. Only then did it occur to him that Dr. Cullin might object to the noise upstairs, as well as the prospect of destroying his property. "I told you weeks ago that Thalia is trying to get everything ready!"

"Well, sooooor-ry," Frank drawled as he pushed himself back from his desk where he'd been dissecting a small animal of some sort. From his vantage point, Abraxas couldn't tell what it was. "I've been busy going on rounds with my father every day. I still have three years of intense study before taking several very long, rigorous exams covering a vast array of knowledge in numerous fields. So excuse me if I didn't get my dress robes yet."

"I work all day, too," Abraxas growled. "In fact, I came from work right now. I managed to find time to get fitted and to make sure my garments will be presentable when the day arrives."

"_It's_ _your_ _wedding!"_

Abraxas walked over and threw himself onto Frank's bed, casting nasty glances his friend's way. "Maybe when you get married, I'll conveniently not have time to cooperate with your wife-to-be," he responded snidely. "I thought you wanted to be my best man."

"I do," Frank insisted, feeling an inkling of guilt—or was it annoyance? "It's not like the world will end if I wait till the weekend, is it?"

"No, I suppose not," admitted Abraxas. "But Thalia has been on my arse about it, wondering why your robes aren't in the making yet. The wedding has been set for October 23rd , I can only make excuses for so long."

"Sorry," said Frank, and this time he meant it. "Just so you know, you won't have to worry about my wedding for another year or two; we decided to hold off till I'm finished with schooling or nearly done. I don't want kids until I'm a full-fledged doctor. On a barely related topic, did you hear about the Lestrange baby?"

"Yes, terrible thing," said Abraxas softly. "I saw Claudius only a day or two before she was born—he was hoping for a son, of course. I can't imagine losing a baby like that, barely a day old and succumbed to crib death."

"It happens, sadly," Frank said with a grimace. He placed a cover over the animal and took off the gloves he'd been wearing. "Dad said he wished he'd been called in, he might have been able to save her. The first female Lestrange born in seven generations, and she dies."

"You were friends with Claudius in school, weren't you?" asked Abraxas.

"Not really. He was in my year, but Slytherin. I was Ravenclaw. He seemed kind of weird to me, he hung out with a peculiar little clique—we didn't exactly socialize except at functions where all the purebloods show up. You know what I mean."

Frank shrugged one shoulder. It was a fact of their society that certain families maintained relationships, whether they liked each other or not. Abraxas was just as familiar with the practice, stemming from tradition as well as family bonds. Most purebloods tended to be related in one way or another. "There was this boy a year above us that he hung out with…what was his name? Riddle. Good looking chap, all the girls fancied him, yet he wouldn't give them the time of day. Strange kid, I thought. Then one time I was walking by and heard one of their gang call him lord-something-or-other—and I know for a fact he has no royal blood or standing, so I don't know what that was about, but it made me think him all the more odd."

"I see," said Abraxas, though he really didn't. He'd attended Hogwarts for his first semester and then his last year of schooling; Frank and Claudius had graduated two years before that. He had no idea who this Riddle fellow was, and the name was wholly unfamiliar. He seriously doubted it was a pureblood name, at least not from Britain—his father had forced him to learn all the surnames of British purebloods for the past two centuries. He rubbed a hand over his chin, distracted by the white-blond stubble. No one could see it, but he felt it and it irritated him.

"Of course I feel terrible for Claudius, but I've always sympathized with that poor little Varden," Frank went one. "First their parents died, now this. I believe he was looking forward to having a child in the house so he wouldn't feel so alone."

"Yeah…" Abraxas hesitated. Should he share his conjecture or keep it to himself?

The Lestrange parents had died three years ago of a mysterious poison while on holiday in the Alps without their children, who'd been left at home. Claudius was a mere eighteen, just graduated school, left to care for his younger brother. And yet, Abraxas recalled his mother speaking of it, wondering why the boy didn't seem very broken up over their deaths. Yes, they neglected both their sons, their father abused the younger one, yet it seemed there ought to be _some_ sort of sorrow, she said. She'd even voiced a concern that Claudius had something to do with it, which Father had shot down immediately, demanding to know how he could poison his family when they were thousands of miles away. Apparently he'd not considered the array of poisons available, some of which acted slowly over time, others which could be placed in drinks or hand lotions, and used at another time.

Abraxas shrugged, sitting up. Why was he even entertaining such loathsome ideas? Claudius wasn't a friend by any stretch of the imagination, nor was he an enemy. It was best to keep such thoughts at bay unless he had true reason to suspect him of anything.

"Oh, did I tell you I ran across Eileen's parents the other day?" Frank was saying, shaking him out of his musings. "They looked at me and walked on by as if I weren't there."

"Because you're my friend," Abraxas said, shaking his head.

"Yeah, pretty sure that's why." Frank grinned. "I don't suppose you'll be inviting them to the wedding?"

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**21 August 1948 (Saturday** **night**)

Horatio Malfoy wasn't in the habit of trolling the seedier streets of London. Come to think of it, he couldn't recall ever having set foot in the less respectable areas except when he'd been searching for that bounty hunter…Patch or whatever his name was. Gouge. Whatever. Yet here he was again, this time under a glamour charm that gave him longish black hair and a thick mustache and beard. He certainly didn't want to be recognized.

He'd landed in a filthy alley bordering on a filthy street; in the warm night air, the wafting smell of rotting food and urine made him want to vomit. He picked his way to the head of the alley and peered out, not quite sure what he was going to see. In school, so long ago, he used to listen to other boys tell stories of going to unsavory districts and picking up muggle prostitutes. He hadn't believed them, of course, though now that he was here he thought it wasn't so far out of the realm of possibility. Not that he, Horatio Malfoy, would ever do such a despicable, dirty thing—not even before marriage, when he could have if he'd wanted to. Now the Unbreakable Vow of fidelity precluded it. Still, they were _muggles_, the very idea of cavorting intimately with them was sickening and repulsive.

Exiting the alley, he wandered slowly down the street, wincing every time a muggle automobile went by. So uncouth. The men in the cars slowed down to stare at the scantily clad women he now noticed lounging along the walls of the buildings. They'd stand up straight and strut about, reminding him of the peacocks in the Malfoy garden. Then each man in the car would talk to one or more of them, finally beckoning one into the car with him. Horatio had just begun looking around the street when he was approached by a short, pale woman in a shorter, tight dress that did nothing to flatter her, while leaving nothing to the imagination.

"Oi. You lookin' for a good time?" she said, smiling. To him her makeup looked garish, her teased hair like a wooly mammoth set atop her head.

"No," he said, instinctively backing away from her lest he be sullied by her touch. She looked a bit offended, but turned to go when he said softly, unsurely, "I was of the impression that…er…that boys…worked here." The heat rising in his face burned like a hot summer day. Members of some of his business circles, when firewhiskey had loosened their tongues, occasionally talked of prostitutes, including the male version if one were of the mind—not that he'd ever indicated he was, but they talked and he listened. One could learn a lot by listening.

"You're one o' them, eh?" the woman said, and it seemed to him that she was leering just a bit. She jerked her head to the right as she added, "Go on down the road a piece further."

Inclining his head to her, he carefully moved past her and proceeded to dodge the plethora of whores that came out of the woodwork to proposition him as he hurried down the street. By the time he arrived at the section where he noticed three or four young men hawking their wares, he was panting and a little desperate. He wasn't used to such behaviour, nor to having to fend it off.

Throwing himself back-first against the nearest wall, he warily eyed the teens who were staring at him in return. They appeared every bit as dirty and pitiful as he'd imagined they would…then again, he supposed that they hadn't chosen this life so much as it had been chosen for them one way or another—being thrown out of the home, perhaps, or running from a bad situation. They were the kind of boys that no one would miss if they disappeared. A faint smile creased his lips.

One of the lads, finally gaining the courage to approach this standoffish fellow, walked up until he was only an arm's length away. He looked to be about seventeen, though it was hard to tell. "Wotcha lookin' for?"

"Just looking," said Horatio, offering one of his more pleasant smiles.


	23. Chapter 23

11

Father, My Father—Chapter 23

**30 August 1948**

Abraxas dragged himself back into the office, dropping into his chair. The last call he'd gone on alone, as the other members of his team were occupied with various other incidents, which begged the question of why so many accidents were happening all of the sudden. Whatever the case, he himself had put out the fire in a small child's bedroom, the result of an accidental _incendio_ that had nearly leveled the place and burned all three of the underage occupants—fortunately not badly, but enough to require hospitalization once he'd tended them enough to move them. It always bothered him when the victims were children, so he felt grateful they hadn't been injured too severely. Where the hell were the parents? He made a mental note to contact the Law Enforcement division about this when he regained his strength.

As if on cue to annoy him, Septimus Weasley came strolling down the hall from his own office. The two men rarely agreed on anything and frankly had nothing in common that Abraxas could find, so why did he insist on making conversation?

"Mr. Malfoy, good to see you back. I've been meaning to speak to you."

_Had I known that, I'd have made sure not to come back here!_ "About what, Mr. Weasley?"

"Hogwarts."

That was it. Abraxas cocked his head, waiting for the shoe to drop. When Septimus said no more, he drawled irritably, "What about it?"

"The new school year is about to begin, as I'm sure you're aware," said Weasley, coming round to stand in front of Malfoy. "Although you're not yet a father, I must assume you want the school your children will attend to be the best possible. Am I right?"

"Get to the point."

"Every year the Board of Governors sends out petitions for finances, to support those less fortunate who otherwise might not be able to afford to attend," said Weasley. "Donations go for books, robes, supplies—you understand."

"Yes, I do. And were I to donate, who would benefit?" asked Abraxas, not even bothering to hide his disgust. No doubt mudbloods and other riffraff who had no business at the school to begin with.

His father had more than once ranted on about the Board of Governors hitting him up for money every year…to Abraxas' knowledge, the elder Malfoy had not succumbed to the pressure, but then he hadn't worked with one of them, either. Weasley could make things more difficult, make work less tolerable if he so chose.

"The funds are open to all students in need," answered Septimus, noting the same disinclination to give that he'd encountered with the young man's father. "I suppose I shouldn't have asked you, though—your father made it plain he wasn't interested in subsidizing education."

Abraxas looked up sharply, grinning. If his father detested the idea of giving to Hogwarts, then surely that was what he must do! "No, no, you're right, Mr. Weasley," said Abraxas, drawing a shocked expression from the other wizard. "Education is important. Even if my father doesn't wish to participate, I'd like to make a contribution of…say…five thousand galleons."

Weasley's jaw nearly hit the floor, his pale eyes so wide they looked ready to desert his skull. "That—that is incredibly generous, Malfoy!"

"Yes, well—just send a Thank-you card to the house and consider us square," Abraxas answered, delighting in the thought of his father reading that note. "If you don't mind, I need to go visit the Division of Magical Law Enforcement." So saying, he got up and sauntered off, whistling to himself.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

**10 September 1948**

It had been a while since Horatio had trolled Whore Alley, as he called it in his mind, though he had no trouble apparating mere feet from the cluster of teens he'd met and spoken with last time. Being a weekend, all the boys were there, and a few he'd not noticed last time, all of them preening in their tight muggle clothing, combing their greasy hair, strutting for the cars going by. Staying out of sight under a disillusionment charm while still covered by his glamour charm, he thought it out for the last time: should he beckon a boy over? He'd made an impression on the lads, they didn't fear him as they probably ought, and any of them would go with him if he simply asked. However, if he made himself known, it left witnesses. Loose ends were never a good thing.

Edging over to the entrance of the alley, where a thin boy of about fifteen had gone to relieve himself, he slipped into the narrow cesspool, waited till the teen was on his way back to join his companions, and made his move. Snatching the youth by the arm with one hand, his other hand clamped over the boy's mouth, he disapparated. By the time the others realized their comrade was gone, Horatio was already in the cellar of his house on the beach. He flung the boy to the floor and stood over him, waiting.

When the teen regained his wits after the terrifying sensation of being sucked through a straw and landing in unfamiliar ground, he lurched away from the man, crawling backward on all fours like a crab.  
"H—how did I get 'ere?"

"I brought you," Horatio answered smoothly. He hadn't removed the glamour charm, and his black hair stuck up at odd angles from the trip.

Squinting slightly in the dim light, the boy nodded. He recognized this man; he'd spoken to him some time back, had asked if he wanted to be entertained, which the man had refused. Instead, he'd merely stood around talking with the group for a time before leaving, and that had been the end of it. Until now he'd not seen him again.

He let himself relax onto the dirt floor, rubbing his head. "I don' remember comin'. D'ju drug me?"

"Not yet," Horatio said cryptically.

"So wotcha wan' me to do?" He sat up, but moved no further.

There was a long pause as Horatio pondered his response. It was unusual by even the most bizarre standards, and this brat could scarcely hope to comprehend. At last he said, "You're going to stand in for my son."

The kid wrinkled his nose, not quite understanding. The very first thought to race through his mind was the creepiness of that reply; incest was one reason he was out on the streets selling himself now. Whatever, it was money. "'Ow do I do that? Wa's he do for you?"

A ringing slap from Horatio sprawled the kid on the floor again. "First of all, stop speaking like a guttersnipe!"

Drawing back and rubbing his cheek, the boy mumbled, "Sorry." His eyes flicked about frantically for an exit, but since he didn't know where he was—except in a dark cellar of some sort—he wondered if he'd manage to escape before being caught again. He'd been with men who beat him before, and he'd discovered that it was best to cooperate, then get the hell out of there immediately when it was over. Using his best imitation of the man's accent, he said, "I'll do whatever you want."

"Damn right you will," growled Horatio.

Getting to his knees, the boy shuffle-crawled to Horatio. "Do you like it this way?" He reached for the wizard's trousers, and was soundly whacked across the head for his trouble. He tumbled to the floor again.

"I'm not a pervert, you disgusting muggle!"

Muggle? Was that a new word for prostitute? Wide-eyed, the boy pleaded, "Tell me what you want."

"I've already told you. You are going to stand in for my son, whom I am no longer at liberty to punish as he deserves."

Blood ran like ice through the lad's veins. "Please don't hurt me."

Horatio's mouth twisted into a cruel smile. "That's a good start."

He stepped forward one pace, and the boy scurried back into the corner. Taking the earthenware flask from the shelf where he'd put it weeks ago, he uncorked it, set it down, and then lifted the lid to the tiny wooden box of blond hairs. Placing one into the flask, he watched it steam as it sent off a rainbow of colours. That was that, it was ready, and he had plenty of potion to last for numerous doses.

"Drink this," he commanded, holding the flask out to the boy.

The kid shook his head, trembling. If he thought he had a prayer of reaching the stairs before this man who was far larger and stronger dragged him back and punished him even worse than whatever he had planned, he'd make the attempt, but he didn't think so. Instead he sat quaking, watching the man advance on him.

With a disgruntled sigh Horatio stalked over, grabbed him by the hair and snapped his head back, and poured a glob of Polyjuice potion into his mouth. He could have used his wand to force the boy, but the hands-on approach seemed to fit, and it felt rather satisfying. It had been a long time since he'd been able to force his son this way.

The boy retched and gagged, though he held it down. All he needed to cause even more pain for himself was to sick up on the bloke. Then suddenly he felt very strange; he was certain he'd been given some sort of mind-altering drug, for he was growing rapidly both in stature and bulk. His legs stuck out from the bottom of his trousers, which strained to hold him in, his shirt ripped across the back. The oddest thing was that nothing else in the room seemed to be changed or altered in any way. At last it stopped and he lay there panting, terrified but silent.

"Excellent," said Horatio, appraising the figure before him—a perfect representation of Abraxas, albeit in clothing far too hideous and small. A flick of his wand remedied that; the garments tore from the boy's body and landed in a heap across the room, leaving him in only his underwear and socks.

"Wot—'ow'd you do that?" shrilled the boy, trying to cover himself, opening whimpering now.

"What did I tell you about that churlish speech?" drawled Horatio menacingly.

"That—I—that—not to," stammered the youth. "I'm sorry."

"Look behind you."

The Abraxas-clone nudged out of the corner far enough to look at the back wall, where until now it had been too dark to see anything. For some reason there was light that now came from nowhere, illuminating the room. Attached to the wall, high up, were a set of manacles on chains. The boy bit his tongue and cried out, then scrambled for the stairs.

Horatio merely blocked his way with a jinx that prevented mounting the steps, try as he might; he watched in amusement as 'his son' attempted over and over to get out, and finally fell down sobbing on the floor. "You see the folly of thinking you can get away, yes?"

"Please let me go, I won't tell anybody," begged the teen, careful to maintain the accent as best he could. "Please don't hurt me."

Smiling blandly, Horatio strolled over to him and the child flinched, which pleased him no end. "This may interest you. Originally I had intended to hang you by your wrists and thrash you half to death in place of my son, to make you grovel and beg and show the appropriate respect due your father." More whimpers from the boy. "Then when I finished I was either going to wipe your mind and return you to that filth hole where you…_work_. Or I was going to kill you. I hadn't decided."

At this the polyjuiced boy fell on his face in front of the wizard, sobbing. "Please, I'll do wot you want. Anything."

"I'd like to try a different approach," said Horatio, ignoring the boy's pleas. "Train you, tame you into a better version of that brat son of mine. One who does as I say, apologizes when he's wrong, isn't an ingrate…"

"What did he do?" asked the boy softly, almost in a whisper, face barely lifted off the floor.

Horatio looked down as if seeing the teen for the first time. "You know what you did, Abraxas. Held your own father at wand-point, forced him to swear a wizard's oath! That alone should earn you weeks of pain. Then spending Malfoy money on those mudbloods at Hogwarts—as if you really believe they won't use it that way! And your snotty attitude, combined with that little witch of yours…"

"Abraxas?" echoed the boy. "My name is—"

A swift kick to the ribs shut him up with a grunt. A flurry of punches and kicks landed on the lad's back, arms, and legs, while he covered his head and scrunched into a ball. Soon enough it was over and the man was speaking to him again. "Your name is now Abraxas. If you can't be transformed into a suitable son, I'm sure I can find one who can." He bent over to raise Abraxas-clone's head by the hair. "And if I decide you aren't worthy, I will kill you, muggle."

"Is 'muggle' another of my names?" asked the boy cautiously.

"It's what you are!" Horatio bellowed, dropping his head and letting it slap onto the floor. "There is much you don't understand, so I suppose I'll be forced to explain to make your training less tedious. Be advised you are here for a purpose, and that is to serve me! I expect good behaviour; I may stop by from time to time for you to dote on me as a son ought on his father. You will be severely punished when you disobey, or sass, or do anything I don't like—and when my real son does something to piss me off, you will receive the chastisement I'd like to give him. Consider yourself very lucky that I have deigned to punish you very lightly this time for all his offenses to date. Is that understood?"

"Y—yes, sir," murmured the youth. All things considered, the recent beating hadn't been that bad, but he was too clever to think this man wasn't capable of so much more—especially in light of the shackles hanging on the wall.

Snapping his fingers, Horatio summoned a compact mirror from the shelf and held it up under the boy's nose. "Look at yourself."

At first the fake Abraxas peered warily at the pale face staring back at him, the blond hair framing the face. Upon realizing it truly was himself in some way, he gasped and sat up, mouth hanging open as he stared in awe. "This is impossible!"

"Not for me. As I said, there is much you need to learn. Now, you will only take this form when I feed you that slop, and when you are in this form you will call me 'Father'. Understood?"

"Yes, sir. F—Father."

"Then let us begin. Stand up. You need to learn how to carry yourself."

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**12 September 1948**

"Honey, won't you sit down? You're making me nervous standing over there," Thalia said, beckoning her fiancé to the sofa of her apartment. She patted the seat beside her, and he grudgingly dropped down into it.

"I really hate this place," Abraxas blurted, scanning about where numerous abstract paintings adorned the walls. In one of the few that represented a human form, a grotesque monster-like creature appeared to be following him with its enormous, dark eyes. "How can you bear living with this plain, ugly furniture and this—this—so-called _art_?"

Thalia patted his leg reassuringly, hiding a smile. "It's only for another six weeks, I think I'll survive. What I don't understand is, if you found this place so abhorrent, why did you rent it for me?"

"Well, I…I didn't exactly," he confessed sheepishly. "I contacted our real estate lawyer and had him find a suitable place. I really need to talk to him about what constitutes suitable." A shudder ran up his spine.

"Don't worry, darling, soon enough we'll be together in Malfoy Manor where modernism will never see the light of day," she teased, though he merely nodded and looked relieved.

Settling back into his seat, he nudged the coffee table with the toe of his shoe. On it was set several enormous piles of envelopes that covered the greater part of the table. "Are these the invitations?"

"Yes. Your mother said it's customary for the wife-to-be to hand-address them." A pot of black ink and new quill on the table beside the stacks bespoke the truth of her statement. "Would you like to lend a hand?"

Abraxas cocked his head and stared at her. "Do I look like the wife-to-be to you?"

She rolled her eyes at him. "Yes. Yes you do."

"Ha ha, very funny. I've got other duties to attend to, like…um…like—well, surely there are duties that don't include writer's cramp and women's work." The moment the words left his mouth, he felt his throat tighten. Damn it, why did he have to say stupid things like that all the time? He winced even before Thalia took a breath to retort.

"Women's work?" she repeated, her voice rising in pitch. "Since when is _writing_ women's work? I swear, you are such a misogynistic arse sometimes!"

"I'm not misogynistic," he grumbled. Instinctively he crossed his arms, waiting for the next assault. "Like my mum said, it's tradition. I thought you wanted tradition."

"I want a husband who isn't afraid to help me when I need it," said Thalia evenly, lips pursed in a pout. "It's alright, I don't need your assistance; I got along fine before I met you, I'll manage now. I may as well get started, it may take me until the wedding day to get them done." Ignoring his puppy dog eyes pleading, she took up the quill, uncovered the ink and dipped it in, and let it hover over one of the envelopes. "You're not inviting Eileen or her parents, I assume?"

A hot flush ran over his face and neck. "Why does everyone keep asking me that? I do have some couth!" He tried to take the quill from her, but she twisted away out of his grasp. "Thalia, please stop this. I'm sorry I said that, I didn't mean anything by it. If you need help, you know you can always count on me."

"Unless it involves _women's work_," she said snidely. A thick drop of black ink splashed down onto the first envelope, ruining it. "I suppose you won't help me with the children, either—that's women's work, too. I may as well get used to doing things by myself." She threw the first envelope onto the floor in a fit of pique.

In an instant he snatched the quill from her grasp, broke it in half, and pitched it onto the floor, where it left a large, unsightly oozing stain on the carpet. "Stop it!" he barked.

Thalia recoiled from him, gasping. He'd never shouted at her before, and to be honest it rather frightened her. Knowing what his father was capable of, she could only speculate on what awful things he'd seen, what had been done to him—and what he himself might be capable of in a fit of rage.

Abraxas, seeing the alarm in her face and realizing he was the cause of it, immediately put his hands out in front of him, palms out, a sign of surrender and supplication at once. His voice automatically lowered in volume and pitch. "I'm sorry if I scared you, darling. I would never, ever raise a hand to you, I swear that on my life. Please, let's not argue. I just…I don't want to fight. My whole life has been a fight."

Biting her lip, Thalia blinked back the tears that had sprung to her eyes. "I don't either. I only wanted to know that you wouldn't leave me to raise our children alone, to change their nappies and take care of them while you go off doing whatever it is pureblood men here do…" A large droplet rolled down her cheek. "I want you to bond with our babies, I want them to know you and love you…"

He slid over to squeeze her to his chest, to stroke her hair. "I want that, too. I don't mind changing nappies…I like the idea of rocking my baby to sleep, and watching you cuddle with him."

"Or her," she piped up.

"Or her. A magnificent girl just like her mama." His hand continued stroking her hair, his face pressed onto her head, where he kissed her repeatedly. "If you want me to help you address the envelopes, I will."

Something between a snort and a laugh emanated from the petite form clutched to his breast. "No, I'll be fine. When you said that about women's work, I started thinking that you don't consider me equal to you, and it upset me. Like being female isn't important." Her hand ran up and down his back as she spoke.

"I never intended to say any such thing. My tongue has frequently got me in trouble, my love, and I fear it will continue to do so," he answered softly. "I'm not very good with words, and I often put my foot in my mouth, but rest assured that you will always be my treasure. My _equal_ treasure."

She looked up to see him smiling down at her, his grey eyes gently caressing her. Ruefully she replied, "I'm sorry I take everything so seriously, so personally. I'm not very good with…I don't know what you even call it. I'm always afraid of being exploited, treated as less than I am…"

"You don't need to worry about that with me, Thalia," he said in an earnest tone. "You're my princess, and if you let me I will treat you like it. When I'm not busy saying idiotic things, that is," he added, grinning.

Thalia grinned back, then laid her head on his shoulder. One hand went up to caress his face; it slid along his jawline, to his chin, and back up to his…mustache? Scarcely discernable because of the white-blond nature, to be fair it was thicker than it looked. It looked, in point of fact, like a blondish smudge under his nose, one she'd been meaning to bring up over the past weeks.

In a small voice she ventured, "Brax, you're not planning to keep this for the wedding, are you?"

"Why?" he inquired warily.

"Well, you can hardly even see it, it sort of resembles—you look better without it."

"Resembles what?" he asked, obviously offended.

How can one be tactful in such a circumstance? Thalia hesitated, racking her brain, and finally said outright, "It looks like dirt, darling. I keep wanting to wipe it off. I'm sorry, but it just doesn't suit you. Besides, I love to see all of your beautiful face."

Sulking slightly, he grumbled, "Handsome. A man isn't beautiful, he's handsome."

Cuddling up even closer, Thalia agreed, "Yes, my handsome man." Sighing, she pushed herself off of him. "I really ought to begin this task. I need to remember to invite Dr. Hodgins and Healer Spencer, and some of the other people from the camp. And my friends from O.S.W.W.—"

"O.S.W.W.?" he interrupted.

"The Olympia School for Witches and Wizards," she said, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes as thought he ought to have guessed that. "On a side note, has Frank made it in for his fitting yet? If not, I'll have to drag him in myself…"


	24. Chapter 24

10

Father, My Father—Chapter 24

**30 September 1948**

John shivered, wrapping his arms round himself. It wasn't cold in the house, though the air outside had become nippy. From here, high up on the bluff overlooking the private beach, he could stare out at the ocean for hours…it wasn't as if he had much else to do most of the time, except wander the secluded house alone, or read books from the library. He enjoyed the sight of the waves, rolling and churning. Although he'd lived in England all his life, till he'd been abducted he'd never even seen the ocean. He found it ironic.

Shuffling off to the windowseat in the bay window, he planted himself to gaze out at the sky and the water, one hand unconsciously stroking the fine material that made up the clothing he wore. It was odd, to be sure, but the trousers and high-necked button-up shirt were better than nothing, and the quality surpassed anything he'd ever felt, so soft and buttery he found it hard to stop touching them. In the closet upstairs, in his room, there were four more of varying colours and styles, with fancy filigree and piping. Frankly, he'd never been dressed so well.

John leaned his head back against the wall. It wasn't even his real name, just the one he told clients when they asked, which wasn't often; he thought it amusing to give himself the same name as the whoremongers who frequented his corner…the johns. His friends thought it was silly, but he thought it clever. He closed his eyes. The man who'd kidnapped him and brought him here had never asked his name, he insisted on calling him Abraxas, making him drink that vile, thick liquid that changed him into another person…the real Abraxas. John didn't understand how it worked, but he knew what the kidnapper said had to be true—the man was magical, as he claimed. The kind of power he exhibited didn't manifest in normal people. Nothing else made any sense…unless he was from outer space. He'd heard people speak about the possibility of aliens visiting Earth.

Out of habit he stretched out his hand, pushed open the window, and the cold breeze rushed in, letting in the sound of the ocean's roar with it. In the same motion he attempted to put his hand out the window, but as it did every single time, it stopped abruptly the moment it reached the sill. Try as he might, he could not get past the invisible barrier that secured every door and window in the entire house. Surprisingly, he could throw objects or food out the door, yet the second he tried to go through, it was like running into a brick wall. After a week of trying, he'd pretty much given up and resigned himself to the fact that he was stuck here.

That hadn't stopped him from trying to escape, however. When the bloke came back the first time, appearing from nowhere, he'd been prepared with a knife he'd got in the kitchen. The alien or whatever he was—he called himself a wizard—had aimed a stick at him, and the knife flew from his hand; he'd been badly beaten for that, and left to hang in the cellar for hours. John shook his head ruefully. He hadn't learned the first time, he'd tried it again with a chunk of firewood the next time, and in similar fashion the man had disarmed him, hung him in the manacles, and beaten him with a horsewhip. The welts were nearly healed now, certainly didn't hurt anymore, but John wasn't stupid—he'd learnt his lesson. Now, a full month since his abduction, he knew how to behave like a proper boy—a proper son.

Sighing, he leaned back again. Today the wizard was supposed to come, he'd said he would. John was ready, the Polyjuice flask beside him, a pot roast in the oven. A good son didn't aggrieve his father, he tended to his father's needs, and to be fair the man did provide well for him: a nice house to live in, decent clothing, a warm, soft bed, more food than he'd ever seen in his entire life put together in the pantry. If only he could go outside…

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

Horatio popped into the master bedroom upstairs; he liked to apparate in a different room each time to discourage predicting where he'd arrive. The brat had practically attacked him with a knife the first time he'd come back, then with a stick of wood the next time. Subsequently he'd been punished severely as promised, but unlike his own dear son, this brat seemed capable of changing his ways. Nonetheless, the urchin couldn't be trusted yet, even though he hadn't done anything untoward the past several times Horatio had visited.

Taking out his wand from the body of his cane, he cast a _hominem revelio_ around the premises. The boy was in the sitting room, at the bay window. Apparating to within a few meters of him, Horatio cast the disarming charm, but as expected there was nothing there. The lad turned with a startled cry, then immediately jumped down on one knee, head bowed.

"Hello, sir. I didn't want to waste the potion by drinkin' it until you arrived…"

Hurriedly he gulped down a swig, and the transformation began. As it did each time, the way his clothing stretched to accommodate his larger frame in this form amazed him, especially since it always went back to its original size once the drug wore off. The wizard—Father—said it was a charm he'd placed on them; John wished he had the power to do things like that, though he wouldn't ever have it…it was born into you, the wizard said. That was why wizards and witches were superior to muggles.

Once the change was complete, he murmured, "Hello, Father." He liked the sound of that voice more than his own.

"You may rise," said Horatio. He walked across the room to sit in the armchair by the fireplace, which was crackling with a brisk fire. "Have you been behaving yourself?"

"Yes, Father. I read two chapters of the book you told me about, _The History of Magic_. It's very interesting." He neglected to mention it made him feel resentful. Why couldn't he have magic, too?

"Do I smell something cooking?"

"Yes, sir. I thought you'd like pot roast with potatoes for lunch," said John-Abraxas eagerly, gesturing toward the kitchen. "It should be ready soon. Would you like a drink while waiting?"

Horatio nodded, and John-Abraxas hurried to the kitchen, grabbed a short glass from the cupboard, clinked a few ice cubes into it from the icebox that didn't seem to run on electricity, yet never grew warm, and filled it to the brim with firewhiskey. Carefully he carried it in, spilling it twice and wincing each time, before handing it to the man.

"Why is the glass wet?" demanded Horatio.

"I-I spilt it," the youth admitted, biting his lip. "I'm sorry, I just wanted—"

Horatio waved an aggravated hand at him, and he snapped his mouth shut. In his old life, before coming here, he used to drink with the blokes who bought him for an hour or a night, or pool his money with his friends and get pissed as often as possible. It had made life more tolerable, and even though this life here wasn't so bad, he missed the sensation of whiskey burning in his belly. If he dared, he'd drink some of that firewhiskey himself, but Father hadn't given permission. Best not to push the limits.

"You look tired, Father," said John-Abraxas, kneeling in front of him. "Do you want me to massage your feet?"

Horatio's brow furrowed in a semi-scowl as he studied the Abraxas-form in front of him, looking for signs of a ruse. The original Abraxas would never offer such a thing! Then again, that's why he'd got himself a replacement, wasn't it? For a brief moment it seemed the wizard was going to decline the offer, then a grudging smile creased his face. "Yes, I think so. An excellent idea."

John-Abraxas smiled. "I have a lot of time to think on how to please you."

Gently he removed first one shoe then the other from the man; he took one foot in his larger-than-usual hands and began squeezing along the sides, flexing the toes, bending the foot back in smooth, practiced motions. He glanced up to see the chap closing his eyes, relaxing; he thought he even heard a slight moan of pleasure. No need to tell Father he'd done this before—some johns could be pretty kinky after all, and he'd done more unconventional things than rubbing a bloke's feet. To be honest he didn't view Father the same as those other men. While he may be strange and harsh, and used him in a very bizarre way—as a substitute for his son, Father treated him better than a good number of the customers he'd had over the past three years, and he didn't use him for sex. That alone put him in a different category.

"That feels good, Abraxas. You're becoming a better son than I'd hoped."

"Thank you, sir," said John-Abraxas quietly, filled with a peculiar sense of gratitude. For some reason, he really wanted to make the wizard happy.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

"Thalia, do you see that woman over there? No, don't stare!" cautioned Nicolette, continuing to browse the aisle of glossy silver and gold-plated dishes as she walked and talked.

"The one in the bright hat?" asked Thalia, wisely refraining from saying 'gaudy hat.' She contented herself with catching glances from the corner of her eye. "What about her?"

"She used to be a friend of mine, until my husband cut everyone out of my life." Now that Horatio had been—wherever it was that he'd been sneaking off to for the past month—she'd like to reacquaint herself with some old friends. This seemed the perfect opportunity. "Follow my lead, alright?"

Together they rounded the tip of the aisle, quite 'accidentally' running into the other woman, who looked about Nicolette's age, dressed in similar high style though not quite so lavishly jeweled. Her hair, long but worn in a roll at the base of her neck, was almost pure silver. Were it not such a pretty shade, Thalia would have wondered why she didn't glamour charm colour into it like most witches and some wizards did.

"Why Nicolette Malfoy, I do declare!" exclaimed the witch. "I don't often you see about anymore."

"Agatha, it's so nice to see you again," said Nicolette, turning to the young lady beside her. "Agatha Rosier, may I introduce you to my son's fiancée, Thalia Ollerton."

"My pleasure, Mrs. Rosier," said Thalia, forgetting for a moment what Nicolette had taught her: When meeting a wizard, extend your hand to be kissed; when meeting a witch of your own age or a bit older, shake hands; when meeting a witch more than ten years your senior, curtsey. She made a quick, albeit slightly awkward curtsey when her foot tipped to the side, toppling her against a section of expensive china plates and rattling them noisily. She righted herself, face flaming.

"Hello, Thalia, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance as well," said Mrs. Rosier.

"Agatha's son Terrel is a year older than Abraxas," Nicolette went on to explain, joining Mrs. Rosier in pretending Thalia hadn't nearly fallen over. She loved the girl, but heavens, she was clumsy! Good thing she had so many other lovely qualities. "They didn't go to school together, but they've known each other forever. How are Terrel and the rest of the family?"

"Very well, thank you. Terrel is on an extended tour of Europe and Asia right now; it's to last two or three years. I do miss him."

"He's all alone?" asked Nicolette.

"Oh, no. He went with Cosmo Yaxley, Lewis Mulciber, and some school chum I don't know—Riddle, I think he called him," said Agatha, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper, "I really wish that Yaxley boy hadn't gone, I just don't like him."

"We've never socialized much with the Yaxleys, I can't say I know him well enough to like or dislike him," confessed Nicolette. "I've never heard the name Riddle. Are they new here?"

"I don't know any more about him than you do. I'd have preferred he went with Antonin Dolohov, at least I know he's a fine wizard," continued Agatha. "But he married right out of school, so it's hardly feasible." She glanced at Thalia, who stood there looking confused and a bit bored despite her attempt to appear engaged in a dialogue in which she knew none of the topics of conversation. "Thalia, dear, I do apologize. Here I am going on about people you haven't even met yet, am I right? Nicolette, why don't you and Thalia come by the house later this week for tea. We'll have time to socialize and get to know each other again."

"I'd like that very much," Nicolette agreed, beaming. "Send an owl with the day and time, and we'll be there."

"I'll see you then." Agatha inclined her head as Thalia had so often seen the Malfoys do, and went on her way.

"I hope you don't mind that I agreed to this, Thalia," said Nicolette, squeezing the girl's hand. "You need to meet as many people as possible and become friendly with them—they are, after all, our neighbors, friends, and those you'll see for years to come at balls and such with Abraxas."

"I don't mind at all. In fact, I'm glad," said Thalia, giving a rueful grin. "I only wish I hadn't made a fool of myself the very second I met her."

"I'm certain she found you perfectly charming, dear." She pointed at a plate high up on the left. "Oh, isn't that a delightful pattern? What do you think?"

Thalia looked at the plate and nodded. It consisted of gold, brown, and green leaves intertwined in a vine around the rim of the ivory plate, was horribly pricey, and frankly she didn't know why she had to choose new china for the house anyway. It wasn't as if she and Abraxas were going to be there alone, and she rather liked the pattern Nicolette had chosen for _her_ wedding dishes. "It's pretty, but I prefer something more simple—like that square one over there with the gold edge."

"Square?" echoed Nicolette, alarmed. "Isn't that…unusual?"

"I suppose so. I really don't mind keeping the dishes you chose for your wedding, Nicolette. We don't need to waste money on more."

Nicolette waved a dismissive hand. "_Need_ is not the issue, dear. It's tradition. And please don't worry about spending money—Malfoy galleons keep a lot of shops in business. Later on you'll select the bedding, curtains, and whatnot for your room. When Horatio and I are gone, you'll have the china you chose, to do with as you please, and you'll be able to decorate the rest of the house to your heart's content. Humour me."

"Yes, ma'am," said Thalia, smiling. "Let's go down the next aisle, I thought I saw some beautiful fluted wine glasses…"

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

**2 October 1948**

A commotion coming ever closer and stopping outside his bedroom brought Abraxas to the doorway, where he found Fancy and Dobby engaged in a struggle to the death—or so it appeared with their spindly legs wrapped round each other while their twig-like arms flailed in a comical windmill fashion, few blows striking anything. They rolled this way and that, grunting and cursing in the tongue he'd come to recognize as their original elfish language. Fancy pinned Dobby down and whacked him in the head with a balled fist.

"Him is my master! I gets to tell him!"

"I answered the front door!" Dobby snarled back, bucking her off. She fell onto the carpeted hallway.

"Enough," said Abraxas just loud enough for them to hear over their squeaky voices. Immediately the two stopped their fight and looked at him from their position on the floor, four bulbous eyes fixed on him.

Fancy's hand groped about on the ground, searching for her wreath of flowers, her attention never leaving her beloved master. "Master Abraxas, we has a guest. Him saying bad things, needing to see you," she chirped before Dobby had a chance.

"Who is it?" asked Abraxas, automatically brushing down his robes in preparation for meeting with his guest.

"A Mister Gulag—" said Dobby, right as a swift chop to the throat from Fancy cut off his air supply.

"Mister Gilligan," corrected Fancy, finding her wreath, jamming it onto her head, and standing up with a note of triumph. "Does Master wants Fancy to take him downstairs?"

"Um…no, I think I can manage. Thank you, Fancy. And you, Dobby. Where is he?"

"In the first parlor," squeaked Fancy, coming over to hold his hand and hug his leg. "Him says you owing money, Master Abraxas, but Fancy knowing is a lie. Malfoys always pays their debts, is a rule."

Abraxas let out a chuckle. It was indeed one of the many Malfoy Rules from the huge book of rules he'd been forced to learn at a young age. "I'd better go see what this is about. You two stop fighting, someone is bound to get hurt."

"But—but Dobby is stupid!" Fancy burst out. "Not understanding anything else!"

"Fancy, you heard me," Abraxas repeated, patting her head affectionately. "I don't want you to be hurt, either."

"Master Abraxas caring if Fancy gets hurt?" she asked hopefully, gazing up at him.

"You know I do," he said simply. Ignoring her exultant cries, he pried her from him and apparated outside the parlor, peered inside at the elderly man seated by himself, then strode in wearing an air of confidence. "Hello, Mr. Gilligan. What can I do for you?"

The wizard glanced up, then stood up shakily, supported on a cane, to offer his hand. "I rather expected your father, young man. I've been doing business with him for many years."

"I'm sorry, Father isn't here. My elf said there is a problem of some sort…" Abraxas gestured for the man to sit, while he seated himself opposite him. "May I offer you a drink?"

"No, no, I don't imbibe during the day." Gilligan pulled a long parchment from the pocket of his robe and unfurled it to hand it to Abraxas. "I don't like to complain, but we had a deal, your father and I. On the first of every month he pays for the household supplies purchased from my mercantile, only…" A gnarled finger slid down the parchment to the clause stipulating the dates and form of payment, "…he seems to have forgotten, and August and September are both over. I'm sure it's merely an oversight, but—well, I'm not wealthy enough to forgive debts this large, and I've got my own bills to pay."

Abraxas was already scanning the paper, along with another receipt the man had produced, showing the list of items purchased in August and September, with prices beside each item. "I do apologize, Mr. Gilligan. I suppose Father had a lot on his mind, or perhaps he lost the invoice. Come to the study with me, I'll make this right."

"I do understand," Gilligan was saying as he followed the young man slowly across the house to the study, his cane tapping on the floor with each labored pace. "A man like Mr. Malfoy is very busy with so many affairs, and now with your wedding coming up I guess my bill got lost in the shuffle."

"Yes, I'm sure that's it," Abraxas agreed.

He allowed the elder fellow to go in first, then rounded the desk and withdrew the ledger from the top right drawer where it was always kept. A cursory scan assured him that no transaction had been made to Mr. Gilligan in quite some time. Picking up the quill atop the desk, he dipped it in ink and wrote in the amount due on the debit line. Then taking the book of cheques, he filled in the information, ripped out the cheque, and handed it to the shopkeeper.

"Please forgive the tardiness of payment, Mr. Gilligan. I guarantee it won't happen again."

"Thank you, my boy. I appreciate this." Gilligan tucked the cheque into his robes, reached out to shake Abraxas' hand, then hobbled out with Abraxas by his side showing him to the door.

After he'd gone, Abraxas headed back to the study. From the glimpse he'd gotten of the ledger, hardly any bills had been paid in the past month or so—and none in the past two weeks. To avoid the embarrassment of the entire community thinking the Malfoy family had resorted to defaulting on their debts, he'd have to go over the books and the invoices and get everything up to speed. Perhaps he'd speak to Father later about establishing an account with Gringotts; in this way, some of the vendors with whom they transacted business regularly could be paid directly by the bank from the account, and no worry of being cheated, for the goblins were nothing if not fastidious about money.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

"I don't recall requiring your presence in my study."

Abraxas' head jerked up so suddenly he wrenched his neck. All at once he felt like a child again, caught in the act of mischief, about to be pummeled. The wide-eyed, shocked countenance he presented delighted Horatio to the point of a short guffaw, which quickly died down to a dead seriousness.

"What's the matter, son? Cat got your tongue? I'd like to know why you're in here—at my desk, no less!"

The younger man got up hastily, bumping into the desk and hating himself for his ingrained reaction. Forcing himself to slow down, he stared his father in the eye. "I was looking for you. You seem to spend precious little time here anymore, not that I'm complaining, but someone has got to tend to Malfoy affairs. If you aren't going to do it, I will."

Horatio shrugged one shoulder. He honestly didn't mind if Abraxas took care of the finances; he had trained him for it, after all. "Fine. Just leave everything where I can find it when you're finished." He turned to go.

"Father, where _have_ you been keeping yourself?" asked Abraxas, truly curious.

Horatio looked back at him with a sardonic smile. "When it becomes your concern, I'll be sure to let you know." He strolled out, shutting the door with wandless magic as he went.


	25. Blast From the Past

7

Father, My Father—Chapter 25 (Blast From the Past)

**5 October 1948**

Eileen used to like Transfigurations class. Admittedly, Potions was her favourite, but she tried hard and did well in all her studies…at least she used to, before her life fell to scandalous shambles around her. The Hogwarts teachers weren't making it any easier on her, the way they ignored the Gryffindor girls and their biting remarks on a regular basis. She'd thought they might stop it at first, though she'd been proven wrong time and again, and she had to wonder if it was because she was a Slytherin. The teachers made a point of singling out the Slytherin students who misbehaved, and a singular point of ignoring the transgressions of the Gryffindors altogether. It wasn't fair and it wasn't right, and if she had a way to change it she would. She could hardly expect her classmates to be at her beck and call, or even in the vicinity all the time, leaving her wholly vulnerable. Only in her fourth year, did she really have three more years of this hell to look forward to?

_Miss Ollerton brings a dowry of half a million galleons to the table, not a small sum by any account, though dwarfed by the Malfoy fortune. Whilst quite anonymous in Britain until three months ago, Thalia is from our own Southampton, schooled at Hogwarts and later at the Olympia School for Witches and Wizards in America. It just goes to show that from humble beginnings a star can rise; this young lady is about to cause a stir of massive proportions by marrying the most eligible bachelor in England. Our hearts go out to all those witches pining after Mister Abraxas Malfoy—_

"Aren't you supposed to be doing your work?" snapped Eileen icily, glaring at the witch holding a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ and reading aloud to all those around her.

"That's not your business," retorted the girl, turning up her nose. "I get excellent marks in this class."

"Because the professor was a Gryffindork like you," Eileen muttered under her breath.

"Speak up, Prince," laughed the girl, egged on by the girl on her other side. "Maybe he dumped you for a girl that can speak properly."

"Maybe if you moved to America for a while your old beau would like you better," giggled another.

"Are you invited to the wedding?" sniped another.

From the front of the class came the professor's voice, loud enough to drown out their catty whispers. "Young ladies, I don't see any quills turning into pitchforks. Mr. Nilley here has en excellent example if you need assistance." He held up a long wooden handle such as a broom might offer, with the end capped by four long, thin, dangerous and sharp looking metal spikes.

The girls hurriedly turned back to their work, waving and jerking their wands to no avail. On Eileen's other side, her Slytherin companion made one final wave of his wand and a brand new pitchfork appeared in his hand, its lengthy, pointed prongs clanking onto the stone floor. He handed it to Eileen, smirking.

"The prong ends go in first. If necessary, pull it out and jam it down again."

Laughing, Eileen replied, "Perhaps later. A bit messy, what with the all the blood splattered on the floor."

"Ah, yes, there is that," he acknowledged, nodding. "And the witness factor. But you'd be doing the world a service, getting rid of some of those blasted Gryffs. They can't convict you for that."

They laughed again, sneering over at the girls trying to transfigure their quills.

"Mr. Blanchard, Miss Prince, back to work, please," said Dumbledore, now only steps away as he moved on by, examining the efforts of his students.

Blanchard rolled his eyes and mouthed the words 'How typical', then retrieved his pitchfork to transform it back to a quill.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

John looked up from the volume in front of him on the expansive library table. It hadn't yet occurred to him to wonder why a seemingly normal household would have such an enormous library collection, but then he'd never really lived in a normal home and thus had no true basis for comparison. What struck him as odd was the fact that every book he'd touched so far spoke of witches and wizards, or was written by someone claiming to be a warlock or some such hooey. It didn't matter—story books, encyclopedias, history texts—everything came back to witches and wizards. There were even spell books and potions books, which he'd found completely useless for himself. He wasn't one of _them_, despite his current appearance.

Across the room at the floor-to-ceiling windows stood Horatio, staring out at the ocean. He started slightly when John-Abraxas abruptly broke into his thoughts.

"Father, may I ask you a question?"

Without turning from the window, Horatio replied, "That depends upon the question."

It was now or never. Father was in a good mood…or at least not in a bad one. "Did you—are you—I," stammered the young man, gulping whilst wishing he'd kept his mouth shut. Nonetheless, his desire to know overrode self-preservation. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself and said, "Are you an alien?"

This time Horatio did spin around, both mystified and vexed, not sure whether to strike the impudent lad or answer the inquiry, which he quite honestly didn't grasp. How could Abraxas even think his father had emigrated here when he knew the history of the Malfoy family inside and out? "Are you implying I wasn't born in Britain, that I arrived here by nefarious means?"

John-Abraxas shook his head, wanting to get up and run but not daring to. "I-I don't know what nefarious means. I only meant that I've heard people speak of those who come from the stars—from another world. You're so different, you can do so many wonderful things…" He ducked his head, waiting for the slap that didn't come.

Ah, now he understood. It was the boy inside his son, the muggle who had the question. He often forgot now that Abraxas hadn't always been Abraxas. He made a mental note to demand that the child study the history of the Malfoy family, learn it thoroughly. In answer to the query, did he come from another world? Certainly he didn't belong in the boy's wretched muggle pigsty! Witches and wizards did, indeed, have a world apart from the muggles now, which was for the best of all involved.

Choosing his words carefully, Horatio answered, "I suppose you could say I am from another world. Does that perturb you?"

Smiling excitedly, John-Abraxas blurted, "No, Father, I think it's brilliant!" A troubled shadow passed over his face. "I only wish I could be as well."

Horatio stepped several paces closer, and the young man flinched, though he looked up expectantly at the older man. "You are my son, Abraxas. You belong with me. Don't forget it again or I'll be forced to punish you."

"I won't," said the boy hurriedly, overtly pleased. "I'll always be the best son I can be."

"I know." He did know it, he felt it in a way he'd never felt it with the original Abraxas. Spinning on his heel, his boots clicked over the floor, and he stopped at the section of genealogy tomes. He removed a large, unwieldy volume from the shelf and slapped it onto the table; puffs of dust wafted up. "You will study this history of our family until you can recite it forward and back. Is that understood?"

"Perfectly clear, Father." He pulled the book over to himself and opened the cover; the first thing he saw was the Malfoy crest, the same one decorating the spot over the fireplace mantle. One finger lightly traced over the image. Perhaps when Father left he'd draw the crest on the wall of his bedroom and paint it in with the oil paints in the room across the hall, then Father could see that he had some talent, too. "It's beautiful. I can't wait to get started."

"Not now," said Horatio, closing the book with one hand and shoving it to the center of the table. "I thought perhaps you'd like to go outside with me for a bit, look at the ocean with me."

Stunned, John-Abraxas merely gaped at him before finding his tongue. "You mean it? I'm allowed outside?"

"Only when I'm here to take you," explained Horatio, simultaneously amused and heartened at the unbridled, grateful joy over such a small thing. Yes, this Abraxas was definitely an improvement over the other, as long as he wasn't required to perform magic. "When I'm gone, you will still not be able to leave the house. In the future, if I find you trustworthy, I may relax the boundaries to permit you free access to the lawn and gardens, though the wards will not permit you to go any further."

"Thank you, Father! Thank you!" John-Abraxas leapt out of his seat, and almost threw himself at the man to hug him before remembering that to touch without permission carried a stiff penalty, and the wizard had never indicated that he'd like a hug. "You've been very kind to me."

"That's what a father is for," said Horatio, smirking. "To teach you that good behaviour leads to rewards. Come along." He gestured toward the doorway, and the youth sprinted for it.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

Nicolette sighed under her breath as Thalia came up too suddenly from a seated position and the book on her head tumbled to the floor onto her shoe, crushing her toe and causing the poor girl to wince. Biting her lip, Thalia limped to the coffee table, picked up the book where it had bounced, and held it against her chest.

"Slowly, dear. You must always make unhurried, deliberate movements that accentuate grace," Nicolette urged her. Even her speech came out in a slow, measured cadence.

Thalia's lower lip had begun to tremble. "I can't do it! We've been practicing for hours, and I still drop it almost every time!"

"This is your first session, it's natural to make plenty of mistakes." Nicolette walked over, took the heavy tome from her, and carefully balanced it on the young woman's head. "You're getting married in less than three weeks. You don't want to embarrass your husband-to-be, do you? Everyone will be watching you, Thalia—everyone. Now straighten your back and try again."

Shoving down the tears, Thalia stood up a bit straighter, threw her shoulders back, and began the laborious trek from the coffee table to the armchair.

"Arms at your sides like a lady, not stretched out like a circus performer," Nicolette reminded her. "Glide, glide; that's very good. Now gently turn and sit, keeping your back stiff, your head erect. Excellent!" She so hated to go on, but until Thalia had a grasp on this, it must be done. They hadn't a lot of time to waste. Unfortunately, her parents hadn't seen fit to imbue in her the necessary refinements for the station in life she was being thrust into. "Now rise, keeping your chin up, using your hands on the armrests to prevent a jerking motion."

Thalia followed the directions dutifully, and when she reached a full standing position with the book still firmly in place, she squealed with elation, wheeling to face Nicolette, and the book went spinning off her head once more. "Oops."

"What did you do wrong there?"

"I turned too quickly," Thalia parroted. "I must use slow movements." She sighed, but brightened to remember she had indeed managed to get through the whole series this time without a mistake—till the end, anyway. She snatched up the book again, hope renewed.

"Let's do one more set, then move on to formal dining," said Nicolette. That was one area the girl excelled at, where her inelegance (code word for 'clumsiness') didn't shine through. Besides, it was getting late, nearly time for dinner anyway.

The young witch had just begun pacing the floor again when an amused voice from the doorway said, "Having fun, love?"

"Brax!" Thalia spun round at the voice of her beloved; the heavy volume slid off her head to smack into a vase, sending it smashing to the floor.

With a tight-lipped smile, Nicolette murmured, "You'll repair that now, won't you, son? Must you interrupt while we're working?"

Abashed, Abraxas took out his wand and quickly repaired the vase, then threw an arm about Thalia's waist while mumbling, "Sorry, Mother. I only now got back from work and heard Thalia was here. Can you blame me for wanting to see her?" He planted a quick kiss on his fiancée's mouth.

"No, I can't," admitted his mother, coming over to give him a hug. "She's been trying very hard and is making progress."

"Thank you, Nicolette," said Thalia, beaming.

"She's perfect to me. I don't know why you torture her with all this grace nonsense," said Abraxas. Leaning in to her ear, he confided, "They make us all do it from the time we're children. Damned annoying."

Thalia snickered. "Maybe they don't want you to look like country bumpkins like me."

Taking her face in his hands, he said in a very solemn tone, "Don't ever say that. I love you exactly the way you are."

"But the rest of the world will mock me—especially your world," Thalia responded, every bit as serious. "I don't want to give them an opportunity to poke fun at either of us."

"Master Abraxas?" said Fancy, hopping in agitation from one foot to the other. "Master, a man at the door saying he needs talking to you. Does Master wanting Fancy to make him goes away?"

"No, thank you, Fancy." He kissed Thalia again and turned to the door, disgruntled. Probably another shopkeeper that Father hadn't bothered to pay! He thought he'd got through all the bills and invoices, but perhaps he'd missed one.

Grumbling under his breath, Abraxas stalked to the door. When he arrived he put on a pleasant smile before opening it, to see a smooth-faced wizard of about his own age and build, longish brown hair swept back and secured in a leather cord, his clothing seemingly new and immaculate but of a style Abraxas was unaccustomed to.

"May I help you, Mister….?"

"Loggins. Silas Loggins." He appeared to be studying to the other wizard, waiting for a reaction. When none came, he added, "And I take it you're Abraxas Malfoy?"

"Yes." Abraxas inclined his head slightly, then stepped outside, peering intently. The accent pegged the man as American, which meant he wasn't here to collect on a debt. Since Abraxas was acquainted with no Americans, he wasn't here for a social call. In fact, the only association he had with the States at all was Thalia, and she'd only spent a few years there. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."

"Forgive me, this is a difficult thing to do," said Loggins, involuntarily gazing about at the great expanse of property in the front yard. He brought his gaze back. "As you may have guessed by now, I'm American. I knew Thalia in Washington, we went to school together."

"I see," said Abraxas guardedly.

The man produced a copy of a newspaper from his robes and handed it to Malfoy. It wasn't the _Daily Prophet_, though certainly one comparable. A large photo of Abraxas and Thalia, side by side, smiling, stared back at him. "I saw this in the society pages. I had to come and let you know."

Abraxas lowered the paper, grey eyes steely. "Let me know what?"

"You can't marry Thalia because she's already promised to me."

(A/N: Be advised that some ppl have not been receiving all the update notices, so make sure you have read all the chapters up to now. Also, I'd like to bring to your attention that the only payment I receive for all my work in writing these stories comes in the form of your reviews. Please don't be stingy. Thank you. :D)


	26. Chapter 26

7

Father, My Father—Chapter 26

**5 October 1948**

_Grumbling under his breath, Abraxas stalked to the door. When he arrived he put on a pleasant smile before opening it, to see a smooth-faced wizard of about his own age and build, longish brown hair swept back and secured in a leather cord, his clothing seemingly new and immaculate but of a style Abraxas was unaccustomed to._

_ "May I help you, Mister….?"_

_ "Loggins. Silas Loggins." He appeared to be studying to the other wizard, waiting for a reaction. When none came, he added, "And I take it you're Abraxas Malfoy?"_

_ "Yes." Abraxas inclined his head slightly, then stepped outside, peering intently. The accent pegged the man as American, which meant he wasn't here to collect on a debt. Since Abraxas was acquainted with no Americans, he wasn't here for a social call. In fact, the only association he had with the States at all was Thalia, and she'd only spent a few years there. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."_

_ "Forgive me, this is a difficult thing to do," said Loggins, involuntarily gazing about at the great expanse of property in the front yard. He brought his gaze back. "As you may have guessed by now, I'm American. I knew Thalia in Washington, we went to school together."_

_ "I see," said Abraxas guardedly._

_ The man produced a copy of a newspaper from his robes and handed it to Malfoy. It wasn't the __Daily__Prophet__, though certainly one comparable. A large photo of Abraxas and Thalia, side by side, smiling, stared back at him. "I saw this in the society pages. I had to come and let you know."_

_ Abraxas lowered the paper, grey eyes steely. "Let me know what?"_

_ "You can't marry Thalia because she's already promised to me_."

Without actually willing it, in a movement as much reflex as rage, Abraxas drew back his fist and let it fly. It struck Loggins squarely on the chin, knocking him backward. He tripped and sprawled flat on his back on the porch, inches away from the steps he might have toppled down. Not missing a beat, Abraxas advanced on him, grabbed him by the lapels of his swallowtail coat, and dragged him to his feet; one massive thrust sent the wizard hurtling down the stone steps and into the grass.

Panting with confused fury, Abraxas barked, "Liar! Get off my property!"

His hair disheveled and nearly falling from its band, Loggins staggered to his feet, not daring to reach for his wand when it was patently obvious he couldn't get to it before Malfoy produced his own. In his mood, there was no doubt he'd use it. Instead, with one hand he rubbed the bruise already forming on his chin; he held up his right hand, palm facing himself, as he snarled, "Surely you know what this is! She gave it to me!"

On his right pinkie finger was a band of gold that even at this distance Abraxas could tell was of inferior quality. A tiny sparkle in the middle that he assumed must be a fragment of jewel glinted in the fading light. Abraxas' stomach lurched. Of course he knew what it was!

"You're lying," he repeated, with far less conviction.

"Thalia gave it to me when I was a seventh year, she was sixth. Ask her."

"And you're just showing up now to claim her?" asked Abraxas snidely, eyes not leaving the fellow. "I suspect since you read about her dowry you're hoping she'll bring it to you instead of me!"

Loggins started, looking wounded. "That's bullshit! I don't need or care about her money, though I confess she claimed she had none when we were together. After she went to Africa, I didn't hear from her, I didn't know how to find her."

"Perhaps you should take the hint." Abraxas took one step, then another down the stairs.

Loggins' hand went to his vest pocket. "I don't want to duel you, Malfoy, but if you force me to it I will. I have a right to confront her, and if you won't tell me where she is, I'll go to the newspapers here. I expect they'll have a heyday with this story."

Abraxas stopped short of drawing his wand and putting this bugger out of his misery. Both of their miseries. If he murdered the bloke, there'd be hell to pay…he might even go to Azkaban, thereby ruining his life, his chance of happiness with Thalia. And to be perfectly honest, he had no desire to kill a man, even one who claimed some sort of past relationship with his beloved Thalia. Of course, if Loggins claimed something was going on _now_, that would be a different story altogether. Death would be better than he deserved. Still, when all was said and done, he wanted to know what the hell was going on, and the best way to find that out was to watch the interaction between Thalia and this wizard.

"Alright, I'll let you talk to her. She's in the house." When Loggins made for the stairs, Abraxas slammed a hand into his chest, stopping him. In a menacingly low voice, he added, "But if you do or say anything to hurt her, you'll answer to me."

Nodding shortly, Loggins jerked the cord from his hair, smoothed it down, and refastened it once more. Striding together, hand gripping his wand in the event he needed it, Abraxas led the way to the parlor where Thalia and Nicolette were getting ready to leave. Over his mother's protest, he gently maneuvered her out of the way to let Loggins pass, his gaze fixed on Thalia. Her reaction upon spying the other wizard—startled, confused, guilty perhaps?—made his stomach quake.

"Thalia, do you know this man?" he said tersely.

Mouth open a tad, her eyes wide, Thalia nodded, then cleared her throat. "H-hello, Silas. What are you doing here?"

"It's good to see you, too, Thalia," replied Silas sarcastically. "I see you didn't spend a lot of time telling your family-to-be about me."

"Abraxas, who is this?" demanded Nicolette.

"I think we should let Thalia explain that," he answered evenly.

Loggins went on to Thalia as if the others weren't able to hear every word. "I came to prevent you from marrying him," jerking a thumb at Abraxas, "when you promised yourself to me."

At that Thalia's horror ratcheted up several notches. "What? I never!"

"Are you denying you gave me this?" snapped Silas, holding up his hand once more, ring evident.

Nicolette let out a gasp as Thalia blithely responded, "No…so what? We were seeing each other at the time." She chanced a glimpse at Abraxas, who looked utterly devastated. "We were just kids, it doesn't mean anything."

"Since when does an Oath Ring not mean anything?" cried Abraxas and Silas together.

"I've been searching for you, Thalia. I never forgot, I kept hoping you'd come back," added Silas.

Thalia rushed to Abraxas' side to clutch him to her; he hesitated in putting his arm round her, causing tears to well and a catch in her voice as she burst out, "It's not like that, Brax! I never loved him, not like I do you! I only gave it to him to shut him up because he kept proposing to me."

Heart melting, he wrapped her in his embrace, enmity shooting from his eyes at the intruder. "I believe you, darling."

"Well I don't!" shouted Loggins. "What kind of woman does that? Misuses an Oath Ring that way? Like it or not, by tradition you're bound to marry me!"

"Don't you dare!" Thalia shrieked, turning her body to fully face Silas while not letting go of Abraxas. Her tears still wet on her cheeks, fire dancing in her own eyes, she snarled, "I was sixteen when I gave you that ring. Unless one is seventeen at the time of the gift, it holds no validity, everybody knows that! You expect me to marry you? Are you daft? Maybe if you'd done more than deign to visit me twice in my entire final year of school, or even come to my graduation, I might have thought we had something, but you didn't. I never even went on a date alone with you! We never, ever had an agreement to wed." Panting, she left off to glare ferociously at him.

"I tried to find you after your graduation, but you'd gone. No one knew where, except Africa," he said, looking chagrined. "I wanted to pick up where we left off, make it a true romance. I'd like to court you for real, if you'd give me a chance."

"I'm not interested, haven't been for quite a long time" she stated flatly. "As you can see, I've moved on. I thank God you never found me. Abraxas Malfoy loves and cherishes me, he doesn't sneak out to entertain other women when he thinks he can get away with it like _some_ people."

"Where did you get that idea?" asked Silas lamely, the guilt on his face evident.

"Don't think my friends didn't tell me what they heard. Brax is three times the man you could ever be," she answered, staring him down.

"Well, that's a slap in the face," muttered Loggins.

"If you want me to slap your face, I'd be more than happy to oblige," she replied, taking a step in his direction. "Give me a reason."

Flushed with humiliation and anger, Loggins backed up toward the door, three sets of eyes boring into him, none of them friendly. "If that's your final answer, I'll go. I should tell the reporters about you, let them make a big deal out of it, ruin your reputation," he growled.

"Goodbye," she replied in a tight voice.

He simply couldn't let it go, and blurted, "I'm sure if I tried I could dig up all sorts of things on the Malfoy name, too."

Before anyone knew what was happening, Thalia had crossed the room and shoved her wand into the young man's neck, digging it in painfully. He bent back toward the wall, eyes popping. "When you threaten me, that's one thing. When you threaten my fiancé, I draw the line. If you so much as breathe a word to do damage to him, I will make you very sorry, Silas. You want to discuss family? My Papa taught me a lot of nice spells for men like you, and I highly doubt you'd enjoy going through life without your family jewels. You know I'll do it."

"I suggest you listen to the girl, young man," said Nicolette, trying unsuccessfully to hide the satisfied smirk struggling through. "She's not one to be trifled with."

Silas gulped, backed up right into the wall, and slid out from under her wand. A second later he was sprinting for the front door. It slammed loudly behind him.

Abraxas sauntered over to his fiancée, who still held the wand in a death grip. Draping his arms round her once more, he cooed, "I have never been so in love with you, Thalia, or so proud of you."

"You carry yourself like a true firecracker of a lady," agreed Nicolette, smiling. For the first time since meeting the backward girl, she wasn't concerned about the impression Thalia would make on her friends and acquaintances. The loyalty and love she showed for Abraxas were what really mattered.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

**9 October 1948**

John pushed the hassock from his bedroom into the bathroom and sat down, where he could lounge in front of the mirror to contemplate himself. It wasn't the first time he'd done this, though of late he'd been thinking more and more. He wasn't even sure who he was anymore. Was he John? Hell, John wasn't even his name! Was he Abraxas? He'd like to be, but without the potion he was nothing more than a nondescript, skinny, brown-haired whore from the streets. Was he Father's son? When under the illusion of the potion, he felt like he was…yet it was an illusion, nothing more. In his present condition Father wouldn't look at him twice. The thought brought tears to his eyes. The real—no, the _original_ Abraxas had his father always, and didn't appreciate him; John, who'd love to have a father to take care of him, to dote on, to be a family, had nothing but leftovers. And yet Father must care in some small way, for he never called his son the 'real Abraxas', he called him 'the original Abraxas'—perhaps because both were genuine in their own ways.

Sighing, leaning in close to the mirror, he tugged at his rapidly-becoming-shaggy brown hair. He needed scissors to cut it. He hated his hair now, he hated everything about himself. Not that he'd ever honestly _liked_ anything about himself, but now he actively despised it. Father had short, whitish blond hair like Abraxas, he'd let John see it after the first visit—there was hardly any point in hiding it any longer. John had decided to cut his hair short like Father's, not that the wizard would see it, since he'd be changed into Abraxas…it was the principle of the thing. _He'd_ know. It still wouldn't be blond, though.

In disgust he got up and went into the bedroom where he could stare out the window without having to look at himself. Father wasn't coming today, he'd already said so. Last time he'd visited he jabbered on about a stranger in his home, come to take Thalia away, someone named Silas something-or-other. (Not that John would dare let the word 'jabber' pass his lips in reference to Father, but it was true.) And Silas hadn't succeeded in taking Thalia, which pissed off Father and made him strike John hard several times as he shouted at Abraxas. He'd gone off on a rant about the wedding in two weeks, and John had tried to act sympathetic, which was hard to do when he was being slapped. He'd assured Father that if he were in Abraxas' place, he'd do what Father said and marry whoever Father wanted him to; it served to mollify him for the time being.

Sighing again he turned, walked to the bed, and flopped face down. He didn't feel like cleaning the house or watching the ocean or even reading as he'd been ordered…he'd like to be able to go outside on his own, and if he behaved Father would make it so one day. With that in mind, didn't behaving necessarily imply doing the instructed studying? Grumbling to himself, he rolled over, and in doing so caught sight of his partially complete sketch of the Malfoy coat of arms. Once finished and painted, Father would be proud of him. Until then he'd keep it a secret, like everything else in his life. It wasn't real…not yet, anyway, so it fit his mood perfectly. He knew who he was now. Jobraxas. That about summed up his life, didn't it? A faker named John combined with a faker named Abraxas.


	27. The Wedding

7

Father, My Father—Chapter 27 (The Wedding)

**23 October 1948**

From the narthex of the cathedral, Nicolette shifted her eyes from the crowd filling up the church to beside the altar, where Horatio was busily speaking with the priest. What he had to say remained a mystery, though since he was paying for the wedding he ought to be able to talk to anyone he pleased, she supposed. After a minute or two, Horatio smiled in the way that always gave her shivers, then he stepped down the stairs and took his spot in the front row, the ostensible devoted father of the groom.

She turned her attention to her handsome son, pacing nervously back and forth at the front, stopping periodically to converse briefly with Frank Cullin. She hoped Dr. Cullin didn't make an appearance, it could prove rather awkward, all things considered, but she was sure Abraxas had invited him. Her eyes roamed over the hundreds of people, noting the families and dignitaries. There was her son's teacher, Professor Lazarov, who'd got him started on his healing profession…it warmed her heart to see him. There, on the other side of the aisle, were Dr. Hodgins and Healer Spencer, who'd removed that grotesque disk from Abraxas when Horatio had been so cruel as to plant it there. Even the Minister of Magic was slated to arrive shortly!

Because of Thalia's lack of family and friends in this country, the ushers had been instructed to seat people on both sides of the church without regard to who they were affiliated with. Smack in the middle of the church sat the Goyle family, every one of the blood members as burly and blockheaded as the last. Behind them, to the left, were the Yaxleys; she didn't much care for them, and not because they were commoners of pureblood descent. They'd only been invited because of their influence in the community. Beside them sat the Averys, who were decent enough, though their son Avery, a year younger than Abraxas, seemed too eager to discuss that Riddle chap she'd only heard of. Who was he anyway? Why did the pureblood boys seem so drawn to him?

Further back she noted the Dolohovs, as ancient as she remembered them being the very first time she met them. She'd heard they weren't doing well, and from the looks of them she believed it. Their only son Antonin, a late baby and only a year older than Abraxas, had been married fresh out of school, though still no baby in sight. His sour expression toward his wife left no room for mistaking this as a happy marriage. He had turned to talk to Claudius Lestrange behind him, ignoring her. His little brother Varden sat solemnly staring at the floor.

Ah, the Notts…her favourite family when it came to comparing happiness. Even though they'd been an arranged marriage, they'd learned to love, which was evident from the goo-goo eyes they gave each other at their age, the hand-holding, and from the way they doted on their son, Quenby. Why did Notts always give such odd names to their boys? He'd been married for about four years, the wife had miscarried once. Nicolette hoped for their sake they'd be able to have more children.

Ugh, there were the Selwyns. She'd asked Abraxas not to invite them, but perhaps Horatio had gone behind their backs and done just that. If there was one family capable of being as brutal as Horatio—and not afraid to hide it—it was the Selwyns. She'd gone to school with one of the Selwyn girls, and had she not been protected by her status and friends she might have been bullied by that nasty witch as were so many other girls.

The Blacks arrived with a flourish, as they did everything else. All at once the Black clan, dressed to the nines in their finest robes, marched into the church, nodding and greeting Nicolette, then sweeping up the aisle accompanied by an usher to the second row, where they filed in as the greeted Horatio: Lycoris, Regulus, Arcturus, Melania, Lucretia and her beau, Cygnus' fiancée Druella, Walburga, Pollux, Irma. Nicolette had heard rumours that Orion was to marry Walburga, his cousin, though reports hadn't been confirmed as yet.

Nicolette's eyes flicked to the door, wondering when Agatha Rosier would arrive. The organist let out a blast of practice music; not able to stand there any longer to wait, Nicolette strode up the middle aisle to take her place beside her husband, lest the wedding begin with her creeping about the narthex. Every so often she peeped around, and was rewarded with a wave from her friend Agatha a few minutes later. When it seemed certain the Minister wasn't going to make it, he came limping down the center aisle to shake hands with the Malfoys before dropping into the seat beside Nicolette. Apparently he'd twisted his ankle in his hurry, and had insisted on coming here rather than being treated first.

Precisely at noon, the music began. Everyone turned to watch as three couples paraded down the aisle slowly, one following the next—friends of Thalia from America in long, simple mint green dresses, escorted by Frank Cullin, Orion Black, and Cygnus Black in their finest matching robes. They took their places on either side of the altar, the men lined up alongside Abraxas, then turned toward the back of the church for Thalia's entrance. The moment the wedding march began, everyone rose and turned as well, excited to see this mysterious girl who'd captured the Malfoy boy's heart to the point of causing him to throw over his previous fiancée.

Thalia hesitated, her heart in her mouth, as the throng gaped at her. There were so many people, so many she didn't know! If only Papa or her father were here to walk with her! Gathering her courage, she took a deep breath and began her painfully slow march alone down the endless aisle, keeping in mind what Nicolette had taught her about graceful steps, keeping her chin up, smiling the entire time. As long as she had a fixed point to stare at to block out the faces, it seemed doable, and what better spot than her beloved at the front of the church, gazing ever so lovingly at her in awed wonder? Even from this distance his adoration seemed to shine through, lighting her way like a beacon. Suddenly her smile didn't have to be faked, and her heart skipped a beat in anticipation rather than fear.

Despite her great desire to run, she forced herself to keep the snail's pace, letting the crowd ooh and aah over her, never letting her eyes drift from Brax. Her high-necked dress—white, of course—bore cap sleeves, the cashmere fabric hugging and draping gracefully over her petite figure, capturing her waist and flowing down to scalloped-edge bottom, a long row of ivory buttons from neck to bum lining the back, the entire dress covered in a complex, elegant tulle embroidery lace. It streamed out behind her just enough not to need an attendant to pick up the train. Her lacy headpiece—more of an embroidered cloth tiara—supported the gauzy veil draped over her shoulders and face, nearly to her waist.

She almost laughed to think of the way this wedding would be described in the paper tomorrow, so unlike the thoughts racing in her mind. Would they consider her terror to be paraded in front of all these strangers? Would they realize her overflowing love for Brax? Or would they describe her dress and the trappings in the church and hall, her family connections and his? Would they condense this magical event to a series of actions?

At last the music stopped as she arrived to the steps of the altar, where the priest and Brax came forward to meet her. The joy beaming from Brax hit her like a wave, and her eyes watered.

"Who gives this woman to be wed?" asked the priest, looking about.

"I give myself," she answered in a much stronger voice than she thought possible.

The priest smiled, a bit confused, but went with it. He led the couple up to the kneelers in front of the altar, where they knelt as one. Addressing the audience, he said, "As you're aware, until the last decade or two it has been tradition, standard practice among pureblood families, to perform the purity ritual before couples are wed." He neglected the point which everyone already knew: it could be performed only by an ordained priest, and was used to ferret out illicit activity, to provide a valid claim for breaking the troth at the last minute if virginity was found to be lacking in either partner, although times being what they were, men were usually excused their pre-wedding trysts. He removed his wand from his robes.

"I don't believe it's necessary," said Abraxas quietly, yet it carried through the body of the church. He knew who'd put a bug into the ear of the priest, and it was all he could do to keep from turning to his father and screaming at him. "I prefer that we skip this test entirely."

Numerous groans and exclamations of surprise echoed through the room.

"I want it done."

Silence. Everyone looked around for the source of the small, clear voice.

Again, stronger, Thalia said, "I want the ritual to be performed. I insist."

"You tell him, Thalia!" snickered Orion, right before realizing everyone was now looking at him, including Abraxas. He blushed and ducked his head.

"As you wish," said the priest, nodding and smiling. At least _someone_ wanted things done right! "Abraxas, do you consent?"

Abraxas shot a bewildered look at his beloved, then nodded numbly. "Yes."

"Then we will begin with the groom, as tradition dictates." The priest lifted his wand over the young man's head and swirled it in an anti-clockwise manner as he walked in a clockwise circle about the wizard. After three passes, he continued the motions with the accompanying words, "_Bi foran he weddian, sceawian he heorte, he purte."_

First one, then multitudes of fine gold threads dropped from the wand, weaving themselves about Abraxas all the way to the floor like golden armour, shimmering radiantly before fading away. Had he been shown not to be a virgin, the webbing would have presented as dark blue. The crowd burst into spontaneous applause and a few barks of stunned disbelief.

"I told you it wasn't necessary," he said grudgingly to the priest. "May we now get on with the wedding?"

The priest looked ready to agree when Thalia piped up, "It's my turn, Brax."

Shrugging, the priest lifted the wand over her head and began the motions as he walked around her. "Bi foran heo weddian, sceawian hire heorte, hire purte." Once more gold threads shot from his wand, to envelope the young witch and fall shimmering into the floor. Again the crowd burst into applause, more it seemed for Abraxas' sake, that he was getting an 'untainted woman'.

Thalia sneaked a glance at her fiancé, noting the relieved expression; she'd have to be sure to bring that up later. Right now they had a marriage to forge.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

Cuddled against Brax's naked chest in their wedding bed in the Caribbean, both of them panting and wet with a sheen of sweat that accompanied their second round of marriage consummation, Thalia teased, "I must have had you pretty worried."

"What do you mean?"

"When the priest was going to perform the purity test. You were afraid I wasn't a virgin, weren't you?"

"No," he said, but the look on her face made him confess. "Well, I didn't know for sure. I didn't think you'd done anything, but if you had I didn't want everyone to know about it. I was trying to protect you."

"And I appreciate that, darling. For myself, I didn't want those stuffy hypocrites to be able to talk behind my back about it, I had to prove I was worthy of you." She snuggled closer, if possible. "However, it would be impossible to pass that test now for either of us." She laughed, and he laughed with her.

"You were so beautiful coming up the aisle," he said out of the blue, tilting his head down to look at her. "I mean, you're always beautiful, but I couldn't tear my eyes from you, it was like…like watching heaven float toward me."

Thalia smiled, touched. "Lovely image. Let's hope you continue to see me in that light. I thought you were the most handsome man I'd ever seen; I couldn't stop staring at you, either."

Sighing, they lay together in restful silence for a few minutes, stroking each other's bodies lightly.

"At least no one can wonder about our faithfulness," Abraxas said after a spell.

"No kidding. I swear, some people are so obsessed with sex, or lack of sex. What kind of family demands that everyone who marries has to make an Unbreakable Vow of fidelity?" she remarked.

"My family," he said, feigning offense. "That way we always know that our progeny are ours."

"As if I'd cheat," she chuckled. "I love you too much to even think about something so awful."

"As I love you, darling. You'll never have to wonder about that." He kissed her again, hard and deep. Suddenly he felt a strong, pulsing desire to replay the taking of her virginity again…

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Lifting the scissors over his head, holding a wad of hair in his other hand, John snipped off another lock, trying his best to make the sections even and failing miserably. He'd already decimated the sides, cutting them as short as possible and his scalp several times as well. The back was proving much more difficult. Two deep cuts on his fingers bled steadily, running down his arm and dripping into his hair. By the time he was too frustrated and tired to go on, he looked as if he'd been scalped by a particularly inept and possibly drunken barber.

He lowered his hands and set the scissors on the sink. It looked terrible and his hands hurt, but what did he expect? Next time he'd do it better, and at least it wasn't shaggy anymore. A single drop of blood fell onto the sinktop from his damaged finger, and he stopped to stare at it with fascination. He'd bled many times in his life, and frankly he didn't understand why this time should be any different. But it was. Carefully he poked an uninjured finger into the red fluid, dragging it across the length of the sink. He hoisted his bleeding hand over to allow more blood to drip; when a small puddle had formed, he placed his palm against it and smeared it over the top of the sink. It felt smooth and sticky at once, and clung to his hand like paint.

"I need to clean up," he said abruptly to no one.

Father insisted he bathe every day, and if he saw this mess of hair and blood he'd be very angry. Hurriedly he got up and shoved back the ottoman with his legs. He'd take a bath, then come back and deal with the mess he'd made. Perhaps after the wedding Father would come and keep him company for a while, though he held out little to no hope for that. And even if Father came, he'd be in a bad mood, not good company at all. It was better if he waited a few days, when he could come and relax with his son—his good son who cared about him, not the one who never listened, who did whatever he wanted.

As John ran the water into the tub, he collected the hair with a whiskbroom and deposited it into the tiny rubbish can. He didn't understand how Father did it, but every time he put anything into the trash, it was gone and the can clean again by the next day. Like magic. He smiled. Yes, it was magic. Father was an alien, after all.


	28. Chapter 28

8

Father, My Father—Chapter 28

**28 December 1948**

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_Halloween was horrible, like every other day here. I went to the dance with one of the boys in my House, who only took me out of pity. The stupid Gryffindors still haven't stopped their snide remarks about the Malfoy bastard dumping me. Yes, I know, I'm not supposed to swear, I'm supposed to be a prim, proper lady at all times and pretend my life hasn't been destroyed by that heartless fiend. Well, that would be easier to do it he didn't have his fat face in the newspaper all the time with that sickly pale bitch who gets to call herself his wife._

_Please take me home! I don't want to be here anymore. You can homeschool me like some parents do, and I won't have to ever see these nasty, hateful people again. I await your reply, _

_Love, Eileen_

Eileen tossed the letter down on the coffee table in the parlor. "I see you got my letter, Mother. Why didn't you answer me?"

"Eileen, your father and I discussed it quite a lot. We decided it's best for you to continue your education at Hogwarts," said Marie, snatching up the letter and securing it under her leg. "And you had no right going through my things, young lady!"

"You have no right to pretend I don't exist!" she shrilled back.

"Sit down and stop being childish!" ordered a male voice from the doorway. George came in, frowning. "Speak with respect to your mother, Eileen. We're doing what we believe best for you. You need to develop a thicker skin, and in time they'll get bored with taunting you. Without an education, what do you think your life will be?"

"Better than it is now," Eileen sulked, seating herself indelicately on the sofa.

"Have you faced your tormentors, daughter?" asked Marie.

"What do you mean?"

"She means have you fought back," interrupted George. He removed his wand from his breast pocket. "I'm rather good at the Dark Arts, I can show you some curses that will keep those girls from ever bothering you again."

"And likely get her thrown into Azkaban," snapped Marie, motioning for him to put his wand away. She addressed her child, "I meant have you asked them why they find it necessary to pick on you? What are they getting out of it?"

Eileen rolled her eyes. "I'm Slytherin. That alone is enough for them to hate me. I'm not pretty—don't say it, I know what I am and what I'm not—so they make fun of that, especially since Abraxas is good looking. How do I fight that? They're shallow and cruel, and I don't know how to respond except to walk away. But it still hurts."

"Tell your Head of House," suggested George.

"He knows," Eileen murmured, leaning back despondently. "He's not allowed to punish kids from other Houses unless they act up in class and he catches them. And the rest of the teachers don't care about Slytherins, neither does the Headmaster."

There was a short pause, then Marie said, "Well, I think if you act like a strong young lady, they'll get tired of it. You'll see. Why don't you concentrate on your Gobstone Club—you're the new President, aren't you? The people in the club must like you."

"I guess," Eileen said, shrugging. "We have a tournament right after we get back from Christmas holiday. I have a good chance of winning."

"That's the spirit." Marie got up to hug her daughter, then straightened her robes. "Go put on your Christmas dress and we'll all go out for dinner."

Eileen attempted a halfhearted smile as she left the room. So her parents flatly refused to let her quit school. Goody. Now she could look forward to loads and loads of hell to come, unless by some miracle her mother was right and the girls got tired of picking on her. Highly improbable. If she had to hear one more thing about that perfect Malfoy couple, she was going to hurl!

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**5 January 1949**

"Then there was Armand Malfoy in the eleventh century, who arrived with the Norman invasion. He was a friend of William the Conqueror, and provided him magical services when William became king," said John, eyes on the ceiling as he focused on what he was reciting. "He was French, too—"

"Although?" inquired Horatio, arms crossed as he stood over the boy, listening to the list of Malfoy ancestors.

"Although we don't prefer the French anymore—he married a British witch," John said, relieved not to have the serpent-headed cane whack him in the thigh again as it had when he inadvertently skipped one name. "He's the one who founded Malfoy Manor on land seized from the unworthy previous owners."

As scintillating as it was to revisit the Malfoy line of heirs and hear blurbs about each one, Horatio was becoming bored. He'd been through this with his own father, then with the original Abraxas. Still, he'd instructed this boy to learn it, and he apparently had, but one must be tested to make sure. "1675," he said.

John blinked a few times, confused. He'd studied everyone in order, that jumped over a great many people! "1675? You don't want me to name everyone up to then?" He seemed disappointed.

The cane lifted slightly off the floor. "I'm waiting."

"Brutus Malfoy. He lived during a time of great persecution by the muggles, and edited a magazine called _Warlock at War_," John spewed out hurriedly.

There was one teensy bit of information that John feared to say, for it reflected badly on the disgruntled man standing in front of him. The book had said Brutus believed any wizard who associated with muggles lacked magical talent, which was patently ridiculous, since Father associated with _him_ and Father was very powerful! Not only did John not wish to remind the wizard that he was a mere muggle in disguise, he didn't want to insult him and get a beating for his trouble.

And then Horatio commanded him, "And his renowned quote?"

John sucked in a breath, heart hammering. "_N-nothing is a surer sign of weak magic than a weakness for non-magical company._" He winced and ducked his head.

"Well done, Abraxas," said Horatio, nodding. He seemed to have completely forgotten this young man was not his own son. "His grandson's name?"

"Ananias." He pronounced it Anan-ee-us. A moment later, the cane whipped through the air and caught him on the leg, hard. He gasped, tears starting in his eyes. "But, Father—"

"Anan-eye-us, Abraxas," corrected Horatio, shaking his head. "How many times have you recited this? You can't get it right?"

"I'm sorry," whispered John. "I wasn't thinking."

"That's enough for today," said Horatio, ambling to the window. "What have you been up to while I'm gone?"

John hesitated. It was finished now…but how had Father known he'd been up to something? "I was studying the Malfoy emblem, and I've been working on it in my room for months. I didn't want to tell you until it was done."

"Working on it how?" asked Horatio, lifting an eyebrow.

"I drew it on the wall, then I painted it," John answered softly.

"Did you have permission to deface your wall?"

"No, sir—but you didn't forbid me, either," John countered. Pause. "Would you like to see?"

Horatio shrugged. He wasn't doing anything else. He followed the almost-dancing youth down the hallway to the largest bedroom, and the moment he entered the Malfoy emblem on the far wall drew his complete attention. Two meters square, it was beautifully wrought, a green and black shield divided into four parts superimposed with a large M, upheld on either side by sleek black dragons; two green entwined snakes perched atop the shield. The Latin motto adorned the bottom: _Sanctimonia_ on the left, _Vincet semper_ on the right.

Stunned, Horatio studied the grand emblem at length before speaking. "Exquisite, son. Very skillfully done. And the Latin means?"

"Purity always conquers."

Horatio nodded in satisfaction, then approached the wall to look more closely. The black didn't seem as black as it should; as he got closer, he saw that it was more of a dark, rusty red filling in the black-outlined bodies. "What's wrong with the paint? It isn't very black."

"That's…I used blood for that." John hung back to the far wall, apprehensive.

Spinning on his heel, Horatio fixed him with a hard stare. "You did what?"

"I-I used my blood to fill it in." John gulped. "You know how they say you put your blood, sweat, and tears into something you care about? Well, I did. I mean, it's a family thing, it seemed appropriate at the time." When Father didn't reply, he went on, afraid to hear the condemning silence. "I had to go over it twice to make it thick enough, to hide the wall underneath. I'm sorry you don't like it, I'll paint over it with the black paint—"

"No. I like it the way it is." Horatio looked once more at the emblem, then headed for the door. "Come along, son. As your compensation, I'm going to move the wards to the far edge of the property. You'll be able to leave the house whenever you please, to walk in the gardens and lawns, though of course you won't be able to go further than that."

John ran out after him, excitement and pride thrilling him to his core. He was going to be rewarded with more freedom! And more than that, Father liked what he'd done! Father hadn't gone so far as to say he was proud, but it was enough. For now, it was enough.

Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo

**Late February 1949**

Thalia crawled out of bed just about the time her husband was leaving for work and came to give her a kiss, and gave him a stern frown. "Brax, why did you let me sleep? I'm going to be late for work!"

Abraxas smirked and pecked her on the lips. "Oh, will you? So sorry." He leaned in for a real kiss but she pushed him away.

"You did it on purpose. You didn't want me to hold a job, and now you're hoping I'll be sacked." She made her way to the bathroom with Abraxas in pursuit.

"That's not true, darling," he replied, not looking directly at her. Perhaps he had—innocently, of course—neglected to note the time, and then when he had he'd—innocently again—decided to let her sleep. She looked so beautiful and peaceful, and frankly she'd been so surly the past few days he was afraid to wake her. And if she did quit her job…or was fired, whichever came first…he wouldn't exactly cry a river over it. "You seem very tired of late, I worry that you're becoming ill."

She grunted something through the bathroom door as she shoved him out, and he stood there feeling foolish for a minute before saying, "I have to leave, Thalia. I love you."

Silence. He was about to try again when he heard a retching sound. Whether she liked it or not, he wasn't about to listen to his wife being sick without helping her, so he thrust open the door to find her hunched over the toilet bowl. He hurried to her, holding her hair back as she heaved.

"I told you I thought you seemed ill," he said, mentally patting himself on the back for this fortuitous bout of vomiting. Only then did it strike him that Thalia was in fact ailing, and his heart melted. "Darling, let me help you back to bed."

She didn't protest, though she did _accio_ a basin to set beside her. When she was lying in bed, covers snuggled to her chin, she grinned weakly. "I guess you were right. A hospital is a wonderful place to pick up maladies of all sorts."

He leaned over to hug her fiercely, and kissed her again. "If you need anything, call Fancy. If you need me, send her to me and I'll be here."

"I will, love. Go on, you're late." Squeezing his hand, she kissed him lightly and motioned for him to go.

He'd scarcely got to the stairs when he met his father coming from his room. They'd come to a tacit agreement to ignore each other for all intents and purposes, which had been working well enough, if a bit strained. Since they were destined to walk down the stairs together, he said, "Good morning, Father."

"Son," said Horatio, barely giving him a glance.

They descended in silence until at last they reached the bottom. Why Abraxas said it he couldn't fathom, but the words popped from his mouth. "Have a nice day, wherever it is that you go." He crossed the foyer and stepped out onto the front porch with his father right behind him.

Horatio smiled condescendingly. "The same to you, Abraxas, though I assume you've been having a jolly good time right here."

He'd been set to apparate away, but Abraxas stopped and turned around. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Your wife," said Horatio, gesturing up at the house. "She didn't get in that condition by herself."

"What condition are you referring to?" asked his son, lips pinched, expecting some snide remark.

"Oh, please. You think I can't tell a pregnant woman when I see one?" Horatio laughed. Abraxas looked genuinely startled, which gave him a rush of pleasure. "Is it possible my dear son, the one with the healing degree, can't recognize something so obvious to anyone with eyes? She's been tired, she's pale, and unless I'm mistaken I heard someone throwing up a short while ago." Snickering to himself, he walked down the steps and disapparated.

Tempted to ignore his father's observations, Abraxas made to leave again, but stopped himself once more. What if it was true? Could Thalia be with child? They'd been married for four months already, and had made love so often he couldn't count the times if he had the notion to try. Come to think of it, shouldn't it be her time of the month? Only it wasn't… Bursting into the house, he took the steps two at a time and ran down the hall to his room, where Thalia still lay in bed.

She looked at him in bemusement. "Darling, have you forgotten where you work?"

"No, love, I have something important to do right here."

"Would you like to share it with me?" she asked, becoming concerned.

"Are you…are you pregnant, Thalia?" he asked quietly.

"No—well, I don't think so," she said, shaking her head very unconvincingly. "I mean, I don't feel good, but I just have the flu."  
"Aren't you late?" he prompted.

"Yes," she said in a small voice. "I keep thinking it will come the next day, and it doesn't." She sat partway up in bed, excited and flushed. "Do you think I am?"

"Let's find out," he said, smiling all over himself.

Taking his wand from his pocket, he held it between thumb and forefinger over her stomach, pointing down. Letting his wrist move gently from side to side, swaying over her abdomen, he chanted an age-old charm that circled her belly in a ring of bright yellow. It floated around for a minute before turning a blazing red, and both Thalia and Abraxas let out hoots of joy and flung themselves into each others' arms.

"We really are a pair, you know that," he said, chuckling and smiling so hard his face hurt. "Both of us with healing degrees—you working in the obstetrics ward, for crying out loud—and neither one of us saw it. My father pointed it out to me!"

"Well, we see it now," she said, holding her hands over her flat stomach, rubbing them gently in delicate circles. "What do you think of the name Cassius?"

"If it's a boy, I like it; not so wild about it for a girl." He assaulted her again with a barrage of kisses and hugs. "Being married to you makes me the happiest man in the world…I didn't think it was possible to love you more, but now I do."

"I hope you love me when I'm waddling around the manor, fat and cranky," she teased.

"Always, darling. Always."


End file.
